Summer
by hobgoblinn
Summary: How did our heroes get from the base of the tower in "The Gift" to the graveyard in "Bargaining, Part 1"? An exploration of grief, love, loss, and how friends go on to cope. Now Complete.
1. Where Do We Go from Here?

Summer 1/9 – Where do we go from here?

Rating: FRT for character death and its aftermath.

Genfic. Canon relationships.

DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television, the WB Television Network, and whoever else may have a hold on them. I do not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.

A/N: While pondering the dangers and benefits of posting a WIP (and procrastinating on same) I decided to upload and post this, which was itself a WIP for a couple of years. It was also my first fic-- nay, my first attempt at writing after a nearly 20 year hiatus. The first part is entirely too long, and it's more documentary than story in a lot of places. But it does have its moments, I think. Special thanks to antennapedia for comments and encouragement when I revised and posted it out on my Live Journal way back when, and to the many kind reviewers on the yahoo groups Giles Rules Baby and Realm of the Tweedy Book Guy.

Note: This story is completed, but will probably be spaced out a bit in posting. Check my Live Journal if you really need to see it sooner, under the tag "Summer".

* * *

As soon as he had seen the portal open above them, Rupert Giles had known it, with a sickening certainty. Both his Slayer and her younger sister were dead. A detached, very remote part of him, was astonished that he still was not. But as he gazed down now at the lifeless form of the young woman before him, he could not muster the ability to feel anything. Some part of his mind registered that Buffy had saved them all. Again. Another felt a sick self loathing, that he had no right to be alive while she lay there, so still. So peaceful. As if asleep. He absently marveled that the fall from so great a height had left no mark on her. He found himself holding a breath, expecting her to draw one herself, any second now. To come back to them. 

But she did not, and as he drew a ragged breath himself, a pain more intense than any he had ever known washed through him. Brought him back to himself. Or perhaps it was the small hand he suddenly found grasping his own. Willow. Struggling not to cry, to be strong.

"She's still up there, Giles," Willow breathed, and Giles followed her gaze up the tower. His expression grew puzzled, but he could not process anything he was seeing–the movement of one figure up the structure, meeting a second one near the bottom, then of two returning. It wasn't until Tara and Dawn reached the ground, and his eyes focused enough to recognize them, that he realized, Buffy really Had saved them all. Including the one person who meant more to her than any other in the world. He released Willow's hand as Dawn buried her face in his chest, and he automatically wrapped his arms around her. The pain, the relief, the myriad conflicting emotions within him threatened to overload his senses. For a moment, if he had not been holding Dawn, he might have collapsed. Instead, all was replaced by a cold, deadly calm. Willow again brought him back.

"Giles, we have to do something," she was saying. She was in shock, too, he noted, distantly. When he didn't immediately reply, she turned to Tara. "What should we do?"

Tara winced as Willow shifted in her embrace, and her crushed hand moved, no longer protected by her cast. She saw the unfocused stare of Anya's eyes as her head lolled against Xander's shoulder, and the still fresh cuts though Dawn's blood-stained gown, and the blood seeping from Giles' side, through his shirt and bandages. Take care of the living first, she thought. "Hospital, Honey. We need to get Dawnie to a hospital."

Willow nodded, grateful to have a direction-- any direction. But she looked back at her friend's still body. "But.. but, I can't….. Buffy…."

Giles roused himself. "No, Tara's right," he rasped. He saw, too, that Dawn was not the only one who needed medical attention. Dawn pulled away from him, glared at him through her tears. "We Can't Just Leave her here," she began, stressing each word in a low, dangerous voice.

Giles shook his head gently. "No, we can't." He looked over her shoulder, his gaze finding Spike in time to see Willow kneel beside him, crumpled to the ground in his grief.

Willow reached out, put a hand on Spike's shoulder. Spike pulled away violently, tried to turn away, but his body was still too damaged from the fall, and he slumped back. He refused to meet her gaze.

"It's getting light," Willow said, quietly.

Spike saw that it was true, felt in his bones the same sick dread that he had felt in the pre-dawn of each new day since he had been turned. Better than an alarm clock, the early warning instinct. It would continue to build until he was frantic, forced to seek a shelter from the approaching sunlight. He already should be feeling it, but his loss and pain were too deep for anything else. Willow's reminder gave him a fatalistic burst of hope. His world was ashes now–why not stay out here, greet the sunrise? He didn't reply, but he did look Willow directly in the eyes now, and managed, despite his mangled face, the ghost of a maniacal grin.

Willow saw his thought–didn't even need to reach out with her mind to also hear it, though she easily could have. "She still needs you Spike," she began, but his high, somewhat hysterical giggle stopped her.

"Needs me, Red? To do what? Kill her deader?" The laugh turned to racking sobs he could not control. Someone pulled him close, and he began to shove violently away, only to stop when Dawn's voice sounded in his ear.

"You have to live. For me," she whispered through her tears. "That's what Buffy said. Don't you dare quit on us now."

Willow watched as Spike's eyes traveled to each of them in turn, lingering on Buffy, and last resting on her. She knew now with a calm clarity what must be done. "Someone has to ... get her home… without anyone seeing." Her eyes widened for emphasis as she spoke the last words, and understanding washed over Spike's features. If anyone knew that the Slayer was gone….

He gave a quick nod and pulled himself together. Something he could do. Even if it hurt like hell, he could carry her. "I know someone," he said. "We can get her home, do whatever…." He couldn't think about it, looked away a moment. "Right, then." He tried to rise, let Dawn and Willow help him unsteadily to his feet. His entire right side felt like it had crushed glass ground into it, and when he tried to move, the pain was more terrible still. Good. With a grim smile he turned to where Buffy lay. Saw the first rays of morning light blazing in her hair. Found Giles' eyes. "You'll have to bring her to me, Mate."

Giles simply nodded. As from a great distance he heard Xander's protest, Willow's quiet explanation, Dawn's soothing assurances. But mostly, he saw Buffy, dearer to him than any child. Remembered their first meeting. Her irrepressible zest for life. Her smile. Her fear. And her courage. He knelt beside her.

"Oh, God, Buffy, " he breathed. He slid his hand under her shoulders, lifted her to lean against his chest. He worked his other arm under to support her legs and felt the stitches in his side–the few that were still holding after all this time–give way as he rose with his precious burden.

Spike stood at the edge of the shadow, where a nearby building blocked the sun's deadly rays. The two men's eyes met, and after a moment, Spike gave a slight nod. Acknowledgment, maybe, or respect. He gently took the body into his arms. "Go take care of yourself, Watcher." He looked around, at these people who had been Buffy's family–still were. "All of you." Then he turned, his gait steady, betraying none of the pain and weakness he felt, as he made his way into the deeper shadows of the nearby alley.

Giles watched as Spike disappeared. Willow was once more at his side, with Dawn, who touched his ribs where the blood was soaking through. "Right, then," he said. "We should…." He looked to Willow, suddenly lost.

"Hospital," she said firmly, pulling his arm around her to support him, as Tara took Dawn's hand in her good one. Xander followed, cradling Anya, who was now unconscious in his arms.

* * *

As they reached the street, they saw the flashing lights, heard the sirens. Sunnydale's finest, as usual arriving too late for what they were not remotely equipped to handle. Xander remembered a time when he had wanted to be a fireman. Now he felt a tired resentment towards the men and women piling out the emergency vehicles. But one paramedic stopped him, looked at Anya, and asked "What happened?" as he helped lower her to the ground and began checking her pulse, her pupils. Xander could only stare wordlessly, unable to respond. 

Another paramedic was leading Giles and Dawn to the back of an ambulance, asking the same question. Giles looked again to Willow, who was now close behind with Tara, before vaguely offering, "Um… gas leak." He refused to submit to an examination until the young man had checked both Dawn's injuries and Tara's hand. It wasn't until he sank back on the gurney, and the medic slid the IV needle into his vein, that he realized how much blood he had lost. He felt dizzy, somewhat nauseated for a moment, before he slipped into unconsciousness.

The paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance, then helped first Dawn, then Tara inside as well. They settled themselves together on the low bench next to Giles. Willow shook her head when the young man looked questioningly at her.

"Uh, no," she said, catching sight of Xander helping with Anya not far away. "I should…." She looked back at Tara then, remembering how she had felt, only a few hours ago, that if she could just have Tara back as she was before, she would never leave her side again. Tara gave her a sad smile that spoke more than any words could, and Willow realized she had projected her thoughts unconsciously. She felt, rather than heard, Tara say, "We'll be fine. Take care of them." The other ambulance attendant motioned her to stand clear while they shut the doors and started to pull away. Willow made her way over to Xander.

She saw the aimless wandering of the scores of the mentally ill, their minds first violated by Glory and then called to construct that obscenity of cable and steel towering over them. She reached Xander's side in time to hear him say, "But is she going to be all right?"

The paramedic replied, "She has a concussion. We'll know more when we can get her back to the hospital." He finished cinching the straps securing Anya to the gurney and motioned his partner to help him lift it into the ambulance. "Are you family?" he asked, including both Willow and Xander in the question.

Willow responded without hesitation, "Yes, we are," and Xander looked at her gratefully. The attendant offered them space in the back of the ambulance. Xander put his arm around Willow, and she felt him trying to be strong for her, and barely hanging on. "She'll be all right," Willow assured him, but she knew as they climbed up that they were both thinking of the one who would not be all right, ever again. The doors slammed and the siren began to wail as they pulled away from the curb.

* * *

As soon as Spike reached the entrance to the tunnels that ran underneath the streets of Sunnydale, he slowed up. He had expended nearly all his energy to mask his weakness in front of the others, but now he realized if he continued at that pace, he would collapse. He stood blinking in the cool darkness, trying to figure out which way he should go. 

He had been lying–he didn't know anybody he would trust to help him, and even the thought of killing them afterward could bring him no comfort. "Stay out of sight," he thought, though most of the demonic population of Sunnydale had scattered to the winds, sensing the rising power was not anything they wanted to tangle with, and that the further they were from the storm when it broke, the more likely they might find a way to weather it.

He knew a roundabout way to the Slayer's house, and as he started down a side tunnel, he reckoned it might take him much of the day to make it there, given his injuries. He felt his rib bones grind together with each step, and some bone fragments drifting loose in his shattered knee pierce the surrounding flesh. Unlike the injury some years ago, though, he had enough working parts that he could walk–also, unlike when he had been paralyzed, it hurt like hell. But that suited him. It was the least he could do. Since he had failed to keep his promise to the lady.

* * *

Willow paced an all-too-familiar waiting area, glancing occasionally at Tara, who was stroking the hair of a sleeping, exhausted Dawn. Both of them had been "treated and released," and one of the interns, whom she vaguely recognized as a friend of Ben's, had scrounged up a set of aqua scrubs so that Dawn could remove the hated, blood soaked dress. Tara looked drowsy as well. Willow wanted to go to her, but she continued to pace, focusing her mind on the sequence of things that they must do next, running through the myriad "what ifs" that would need to be taken care of in the coming days. She remembered how she had been when Joyce had died, unable to make even the simplest decisions about what to wear, even with Tara's steadying influence. But now, as she glanced back at them, she felt a strange resolve. She was going to take care of them. She had to. 

She went back to her mental checklists. They were safe and comforting, like a computer program–something she could understand and control. She needed that just now. She had watched Giles handle things for Buffy, with her mom, but she knew, remembering the glazed, stricken look in his eyes, that even if his injuries turned out to be relatively minor, this wasn't something he could do. Not this time. The loss was too great, too near.

She saw Xander approaching and moved to intercept him in the hall, motioning with a finger to her lips and a glance at Dawn and Tara, now both asleep, that they should be quiet. "How's Anya?" she asked, stepping back to discourage the hug. She couldn't go there right now, and he saw it in her downcast eyes. That if she hugged him now, she would fall apart.

So he replied, relief evident on his haunted face, "She's a tough girl, my Anya. Mild concussion, some bruises." He drew a deep breath, blew it out again. "She's going to be fine. She's just waiting for a doctor to sign her out. She said she'd meet us here. What about Giles?"

Willow shook her head. "Still in surgery. But," she continued hopefully, "he's been so much worse, you know. Like that time when Angel… a-and…." She trailed off, and Xander reached out to grip her shoulder comfortingly. He felt her trembling, the effort it was costing her to be strong. "_My brave little toaster_," he thought, with a sad, fond smile.

Aloud, he cleared his throat, suddenly constricted with unshed tears, and said, "Why don't you sit down, Will? Take a break." He gave her a small grin. "I can pace for you."

She smiled back and nodded, but as she turned she saw the surgeon approaching. So she waited until he reached them. "You're the family of Rupert Giles?" Willow and Xander nodded apprehensively.

The surgeon continued, "Well, he came through the surgery fine, but he has lost a lot of blood. We'd like to keep him, at least overnight, for observation." Willow rearranged her mental priorities as the doctor paused, frowning back through the chart. "Maybe longer–wasn't he in here just yesterday?"

"Yeah, he, uh, he got mugged," Xander offered.

"By a gang on PCP," Willow added.

"And then there was that explosion last night, as we were driving him home…." Xander trailed off.

The doctor eyed them dubiously. "Well, whatever happened, he needs rest and lots of it now. When I do release him, you have to promise me you'll see that he stays off his feet for a while. I don't want to see him again anytime soon. Understood?" The short, balding surgeon suddenly reminded Xander of Principal Snyder, as he fixed them with a piercing gaze. They both nodded.

Then, Willow found her voice. "When can we see him?" She was not deterred by the flash in the doctor's eyes. "He–he lost someone very close to him tonight. I don't think he should be alone when he wakes up. Not if you want him to stay quiet."

The surgeon considered a moment, then nodded. "I'll let one of you sit with him, if you like. He's in recovery now. We actually could use another pair of eyes in there." He paused and took in the unusually chaotic scene around him. "Lots of casualties from that gas leak."

Willow turned to Xander, took his hand and squeezed it. "Can you stay with them?" she asked, motioning towards Tara and Dawn. Xander nodded and moved into the waiting area, to take her place pacing one end of the room, if only he had known it.

Willow turned back to the doctor. "Lead on," she said.

* * *

When Spike got to the tunnel exit nearest the Summers residence, it was still late afternoon, but it was also quite overcast, and just now, raining pretty steadily. If he kept to the shade of the trees, and he knew from long practice just what path he would need to take for that, he should be safe enough. Though he still didn't much care, for himself, he was damned if he would fail in this task, after everything. 

He chuckled bitterly at the thought. _He was damn right he was damned–wasn't that the whole bloody point of being a demon? _He laid his burden down for a moment to remove his leather duster, place it over her to shield her from the rain, then lifted her gently again into his arms. _Eternally damned. No smell of a soul on him anywhere, the demon Doc had said. So why did he hurt so damned much?_

He shook off the thought as he traced the well known path to Buffy's door, knowing that she had not locked it the previous night when they had left. He had looked askance at her at the time, but her expression had kept him silent, and he realized now why she had not bothered. If they died, stolen possessions would be the least of their problems. And if they lived–well, she'd been right. Someone might need to get in in a hurry, without a key. He shifted her limp body in his arms as he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Inside, he paused for a moment, then took the stairs up to Buffy's room. The irony of his being alone in there now, with her, was not lost on him. But again, he pushed the thought aside as he laid her gently on the white bedspread, pulled his jacket from her face, and smoothed her hair with his hands. Crossed her arms on her breast. Cocked his head at her, in that quizzical expression he sometimes got, when the human condition mystified him. He was a demon who had inflicted painful, brutal, sadistic death on thousands, including two slayers. But now, as he gazed down at her, this eternal sleep made no sense to him at all. No more than his feelings about it did. He pulled the desk chair up beside the bed, and crossed his arms over the back of it, resting his head for a moment against the cool wood, before sitting up straighter to keep vigil.

* * *

It was odd. When Willow had first joined Giles in the recovery area, she had been relieved to see how much stronger he looked than she had feared he would. But now, as she approached him, lying in the bed he had just been moved to in his own room, a cold fear gripped her heart. 

Willow dragged a heavy wooden chair up next to Giles' bed and sank wearily into it. She looked over the bed rail at her mentor, her friend, noted how old he looked, and how fragile. They had always teased him about being old, of course, but now–he reminded her, painfully, of her grandfather, those last few days before he'd died, when she was ten. Around her, the sounds of the busy hospital faded to a deafening silence. She reached out and laid her hand on his and bowed her head.

She gradually noticed that her head was aching-- a side effect of doing magicks well beyond her normal abilities. She had mustered the strength to do what needed to be done, and she had restored her beloved to herself, but now she felt very clearly the cost. She bore it for a few minutes, then remembered a relatively simple spell–one that might alleviate the pain. Looking at Giles, she suddenly remembered the page in the book–one of many she had pored over after Tara's injury–and she had a flash of insight–that if she modified it just slightly, she might be able to speed Giles' healing as well as her own.

She focused her mind, became very aware of the blood coursing through her veins, and the weak but steady beating of her friend's heart. She murmured the words of the simple incantation, and the pain in her head instantly lifted. She began to concentrate more on Giles, felt with some fear just how damaged he was, body and soul. She squeezed his hand gently and brought it to her lips as she continued to chant quietly. She felt his body begin to knit itself back together, and, as he gained strength, she felt him begin to move towards consciousness. She faltered then.

"Oh, no, Giles," she breathed. She couldn't let bear to him face the pain and grief that would be waiting for him, not just now. She called another spell to mind, one that would keep him unconscious until she lifted it. She worked this one more easily than the last, and though a slight ache came back to her head as she finished, she thought it was well worth the price. He needed to rest. As she opened her eyes again and looked at him, she noted with satisfaction how the lines in his face had eased somewhat, and how his breathing seemed deeper, less labored. She looked up as Xander peered around the door.

"Hey witchy woman," he said quietly. "We're all ready to go now. Want us to wait up for you?"

She shook her head. "I think we can leave him for a bit now," she said. At Xander's puzzled look, she quickly added, "The, um, the doctor just gave him something–should keep him out until at least tomorrow. What time is it?"

Xander glanced down at his watch and grimaced. "I'm guessing not 1:00 a.m.," he said, shaking it. He glanced back to the clock in the hallway. "Coming up on 6:00, actually," he said.

Willow nodded, gave Giles' hand a last squeeze and gently laid it on his chest. "Let's get everyone home," she said.

* * *

Xander and Anya dropped off Willow, Tara and Dawn at the Summers residence. Xander offered to see them in, but Willow insisted he get Anya home. "If you need anything, give me a call," he said, as he hugged Willow close to him. 

Willow gave him a sad smile. "We'll be fine tonight," she said. She watched until his car turned the corner down the street, then followed Tara and Dawn into the house.

Dawn looked absolutely dead on her feet, even after her nap in the waiting room. It was to be expected, Willow mused. Too many sorrows in one so young; they were bound to catch up with her sooner or later. "Want a snack?" she heard Tara ask kindly, brushing Dawn's hair out of her eyes. Dawn shook her head, paused for a moment, then said, "S-some water, maybe." They detoured towards the kitchen while Willow made her way upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, she saw the open door to Buffy's room, and the vampire rising to meet her at the doorway. "Everyone all right?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, her eyes moving past him to the still form on the bed. She found her voice. "No trouble getting here?"

She thought she saw a ghost of a smile, but it faded too quickly for her to be sure. "No," he answered. "And," he added, before she could ask, "nobody saw us." He looked down, caught in his earlier lie, but she simply nodded, then looked at his torn cheekbone and his stiff movements as he joined her in the hallway.

"You're hurt," she said, reaching up to touch the cut over his eye. He caught her hand.

"I'll heal," he replied grimly, refusing to meet her eyes.

She shook her head. "We've got lots of bandages and stuff–you'll heal faster if we get your injuries cleaned up and bandaged right."

He shook his head, seeming a little embarrassed at the attention. "I think…." He paused, then continued, "I think I want to be alone for a bit, just now." He was grateful when she didn't point out he'd been alone all day.

"Ok," she agreed, gently. They walked back downstairs. At the door, they heard Dawn and Tara in the kitchen, both crying softly. A look of pain crossed Spike's face, and he looked for a second like he might go to them, but then he sighed and turned back to Willow.

"What's the plan now, Red?" he asked.

She looked towards the kitchen, then back at him. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, I'll make the arrangements for…." Her voice trailed off.

He nodded. "Please, let me know," he said. "I… I'll do anything I can for you. You know that, don't you?"

Willow looked at him in surprise, partly from his gentle words, and partly because she suddenly had an urge to hug him, to comfort him, as if he were human, and their friend. He saw the look, and the walls snapped back up. "Right, then," he said briskly. "I'll just be off. Need a smoke somethin' terrible." With that, he turned and vanished into the twilight.

* * *

Spike wandered aimlessly, but he wasn't surprised when he looked up to see the tower above him once again. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, took a deep drag on it. He stayed there a long while, looking down at the spot where Buffy had fallen, lost in thought. 

"Returned to the scene of the crime, eh Spike?"

Spike started, then cursed inwardly. He composed himself, flicked his cigarette butt away into the darkness, following the glowing ember with his eyes. Then he pulled out another cigarette. "Sod off, Harris," he replied, as he lit it.

Xander took him by the shoulders and swung him around. Spike just looked at him, unconcerned, as he pulled the cigarette from his lips. He made no move to defend himself as Xander's fist connected with his jaw. The blow spun him halfway around, and Spike thought, not for the first time, that people really did underestimate this boy. He pulled himself back upright and gazed at the frustration and fury in those haunted eyes. He took another pull on the cigarette. "Shouldn't you be home with your lady?" Spike asked conversationally, for all the world as though they were discussing the weather.

For a moment, he thought Xander might strike him again, but then the fist dropped slowly to his side. "She's asleep. I just…." He trailed off helplessly.

Spike nodded, "Yeah." They stood together in silence, hands thrust in their pockets, looking up at the tower.

"Doesn't seem real," Xander said, after a time.

"No," Spike agreed, and began walking towards the broken wall near the back of the yard. Xander fell into step beside him. Spike indicated the hole in the wall as they approached. "Your handiwork?" he asked.

Xander grinned slightly. "Those under-rated bowling skills," he acknowledged. Spike could see the wrecking ball through the hole, and he nodded approvingly, kicking at some of the rubble around their feet.

"Never played," he admitted. "Used to be fair at darts." He didn't add that had been after he'd become a vampire, nor that the game had involved some damage to his human opponents not intended by the game's creators. He did notice that the pleasure he had once taken in the memory of his former evil was entirely absent, and in its place was something very like–shame? Regret? He shook off the feeling, took another drag on his cigarette.

"Hey, what's that, over there?" Xander pointed to what looked like an arm sticking out from behind the rubble. The ground was uneven here, where the portal's energy discharges had left some fissures in the pavement. They made their way carefully around, until they stood over what appeared to be a headless body, wearing a familiar black leather jacket.

"The robot," Xander breathed, as he realized what he was seeing. Spike was at a loss for a moment, then thought of something himself.

"We should get it back to Willow," Spike said, not immediately noticing the murderous fury that blazed up in his companion's eyes.

"Why, Spike? If you're horny, why not just take her right here?"

Spike snapped his head around, his eyes unusually bright, unable to hide his pain and revulsion. Xander faltered in his self righteous anger. Spike waited a moment, choosing and discarding several replies before settling on simply, "If Willow can fix it, it'll be easier to keep up the pretense that the Slayer is still here." He sighed and continued somewhat unsteadily, "I think she would want that," and they both knew he was no longer referring to Willow.

Xander ducked his head and then nodded. "My car's parked on the street." He bent down to lift the robot's shoulders as Spike got its feet. They carried it in silence back to the car and placed it in the trunk. Then they stood around for a minute, neither of them looking forward to the next task.

"Right," Spike said. "It's not much good without…." He couldn't finish.

Xander nodded. "We should spread out. It's got to be…."

Spike nodded quickly. "Right, then." They branched out, coming at the place where they had found the robot's body from different directions, scanning the ground carefully for its head. Xander was the unlucky one to spy it first.

Spike knew the boy had found it when he heard a hoarse cry, then what sounded like vomiting. He ran over to Xander, saw what had caused the reaction, lying on the ground, staring sightlessly up at them. Xander was hunched over, on his knees, a few feet away. Spike sniffed hard, fighting back his own reaction. He was not a weak mortal, for hell's sake. He reached down and squeezed the lad's shoulder. "Easy, Harris. It's all right."

Xander replied thickly, "Sod off, William."

Spike grinned at his spirit, but it faded almost as soon as it crossed his lips. He was silent a moment, then took a deep shuddering breath. "Yeah. Listen, give me your keys. I can take care of it." Xander fished in his pocket without argument, slapped the keys over into Spike's outstretched hand, trying to get control over his own breathing again. Spike turned back to the object lying in the dirt at their feet. "Uh, take your time," he said quietly, no trace of his habitual condescending sneer. With a shudder, he lifted the robot's head and gazed into its grit-specked eyes. His boots crunched through the gravel in the yard as he made his way back to the car. After a few moments, Xander rose unsteadily to his feet and followed.

* * *

Giles had read about alien abduction experiences, but this was the first time he had experienced anything like it himself. Not actual aliens, of course. Just the numbing terror that came from being totally awake, but unable to move or rouse himself. He was completely aware of his body--every itch, every breath, the discomfort of the heart sensors pulling at his chest hair, the bruising around his IV needle, where they had pierced him several times before actually hitting his collapsed vein-- but he could do nothing. 

He struggled for a time against the weight smothering him. There was something very important, something he couldn't quite remember, but it was absolutely vital. But try as he might, he was unable to get it. He cursed his weakness, his stupidity. He was unable to weep, but he desperately wanted to, without knowing why.

He finally sank back, inside himself, exhausted, and as deeper sleep claimed him again, he mentally uttered a prayer from his childhood that he had not thought of in years, one invoked to protect loved ones in time of danger and death. He knew no reason why he should be repeating it now, but it seemed dreadfully important. And unaccountably hopeless. He drifted off, wondering why he felt so desolate, so alone.

* * *

Dawn had said she didn't think she could sleep alone, not tonight, and Tara and Willow had both agreed quickly that she wouldn't have to. Now, as Willow gazed down on both of them sleeping peacefully beside her, she smiled sadly. She feared her restlessness would wake them and moved to rise. Tara's arm curled protectively around Dawn, as around a precious daughter, and Willow laid a kiss on both their exhausted brows before pulling on her robe and making her way downstairs, where her laptop sat on the kitchen table, right where she had left it the day before. 

She flipped it open and began to hack first into the coroner's office, adding another death from the ubiquitous "gas leak", complete with examination reports and death certificates, for one Anne Summerville, aged 20 years. Then she searched around until she found a casket company with laughably insecure web security, and created a purchase order for a mahogany casket, for the same Anne Summerville, to be picked up tomorrow afternoon. Xander could probably get a truck of some kind, and maybe get a couple of guys from the construction gang to help him.

She then thought about hacking into the computers of one of Sunnydale's many funeral homes to add Anne Summerville to their list of incoming clients, but something in her could not bear to let anyone else touch the body of her friend. She didn't think she could do it, herself-- but letting a stranger–that was even worse, she shuddered. And she remembered, Tara had told her quietly, while Dawn had been brushing her teeth in the bathroom, "I come from people who take care of their dead themselves. I know how to do… what needs doing." Willow had smiled at her with a mixture of love and amazement, that Tara, having just come back to herself after weeks alone in some dark hell, would see just what was bothering her, and offer such comfort.

The thought of Tara, and whatever hell she had been in, brought her back to Buffy. Where was she, Willow wondered. Her religious tradition, about which she had been fairly serious as a child, had only Sheol–not Hell exactly, but just the place where the dead went, where they slept, unable to worship the Creator or care about anything or anyone. Of course, her religious tradition didn't have much to say about Hell Gods, vampires, Slayers, dimensional portals, or magicks–not to mention why crosses and holy water, not Stars of David, had such a detrimental effect on the undead.

She had a sudden, horrible thought. What if Buffy had ended up in one of the many hell dimensions Anya was always going on about? A germ of a plan began to form in her mind. She would have to do something. Buffy was her best friend. Buffy had believed in her power, and she had come through during the fight. She knew without doubt that she could do so again. She began wondering how to get the information she needed from Anya and Giles, and perhaps Spike, without their figuring out why she wanted to know. She rested her head on the cool tabletop for just a moment….

She was brought back to herself, drooling a little, with her head sunk in exhaustion on the table beside her laptop, by a knock on the door. She rose groggily and went to open it.

Spike and Xander stood together on the doorstep, both with haunted looks in their eyes. "Hey, Willow," Xander smiled wanly, while Spike nodded in acknowledgment behind him. Willow looked from one to the other, the last two people she had expected to see tonight, much less together.

"We, uh, we found something, back at the tower," Xander began. He gestured with his head. "It's in the trunk. We thought we should get it here now, while it was still dark," he continued apologetically. "I'm glad you were still up." Glad, but she could tell from his tone, not terribly surprised. Looking at the two of them, she wondered if either of them planned on sleeping ever again.

She was about to ask what they had found, but they were already moving back to the trunk of the Xandermobile, Xander fumbling with his keys, then handing them over to Spike with an irritated gesture at his murmured suggestion. Spike unlocked the trunk and placed a smaller round object on top of the larger one they both were lifting. They came back and Willow caught sight of the dismembered body of what looked like her best friend. It took her a few moments to realize it was the Buffy-bot, the head resting precariously on the stomach of the body as they passed through the open doorway and she stood back to give them room. Xander asked over his shoulder, "Where do you want it?" even as he moved to the couch.

Willow thought the couch was probably one of the worst places for the robot she could think of, especially if Dawn was the first up in the morning, but she didn't bother to correct them. "There's fine," she nodded, and the two lowered it to the couch, Spike's lightning reflexes catching the head before it tumbled to the floor, and placing it on the couch where a real head would have been, had it been attached. He turned it so the face was towards the back of the couch, and averted his gaze, unable to even look on the likeness of the woman he had been so obsessed about only a few weeks–or was it days?–ago.

"Uh, thanks, guys," Willow said. She stood then, at a loss for what else to say, or do. Spike smiled first as he came up to her, drew his face down to bring his eyes level with hers.

"You should get to bed," he said sternly, but not unkindly. Willow once again found herself touched by his humanity, even as she knew he possessed none, and would have been offended at the suggestion.

After a moment, she replied, "So should you. Both of you," she continued, turning to Xander. He was still staring at the robot, trying not to cry.

Spike said quietly, "Harris." The name, and the tone, were enough for Xander to look up at him. "She's upstairs, lad. Maybe you should take some time, say your good-byes properly, to the real one." Xander looked lost for a minute, then met Willow's eyes and nodded. He made his way upstairs, and they heard the door click shut quietly behind him when he reached Buffy's room.

Spike looked around the room, at the floor, anywhere but toward Willow on the one hand, and the robot on the other. "Maybe we should cover it?" he asked, after a few moments, obviously having thought of Dawn's reaction when she awoke the next morning.

Willow shook her head. "Basement might be a better place for it." She picked up the head, keeping its face averted from them both. "Can you carry the rest of it?" Spike only nodded and followed her to the kitchen, and the basement door. They found a suitable space between the washing machine and the wall, and laid the robot in it. Willow found a blanket on a nearby shelf and covered it, with Spike's help. They stood for a moment, assessing their handiwork.

"Good idea," Willow finally said, "bringing it here. I should have remembered it," she added, ruefully.

Spike nodded, but didn't reply. After a few moments, she moved back towards the stairs and he followed her. As they reached the front door, he paused. "Someone should be with Anya," he said. "I can't go in, uh course, but… I could hear if she calls out for him. If she does, I can knock, tell her what's going on."

Willow glanced upstairs for a long moment. "That's a good idea," she said, finally. She looked at him, trying to read his expression. "But, Spike…. Why?"

He shook his head. "I don't know." He sounded genuinely puzzled. Then he shrugged, turned to the door, pausing as he opened it. "Just, uh… ask him not to slay me, if he comes on me outside his doorway." He grinned weakly. "I'm not sure how much longer I can stay awake."

* * *

Willow nodded, closed the door quietly behind him. But she continued staring at the door for some time, after the vampire had departed. 

It was nearly dawn when Xander came back down the stairs. Willow was sitting on the couch with a steaming mug, looking thoughtful. Her weary eyes brightened a little as he came into view. His eyes were red, but he looked more at peace, and Willow was glad.

"Hey," he breathed, as she rose to give him a hug. He rested his chin on the top of her head.

"Feelin' better?" she asked gently.

"Yeah." He hugged her closer for a second, then released her. "You're up late," he observed.

"Or early," she corrected.

He grinned a little. "Or early," he conceded. "Whatcha been up to?"

"Oh, you know. This and that." He waited, just watching her, until he broke down and admitted, "Ok, hacking into official computer systems, falsifying records-- the usual." She paused for a moment, then said more seriously, "I'm gonna have a couple of jobs for you later. Think you can make me some time?"

"Sure," he replied. "I got no plans today. I cleared my calendar for that apocalypse…." He trailed off, the humor falling flat. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," Willow began, "We need to go pick up Giles from the hospital this morning…."

"Think he'll be ready to leave so soon? He was in pretty bad shape yesterday, wasn't he?"

Willow avoided his eyes. "Oh, yeah, well, we should at least visit. But when, uh, If he gets cut loose, we should be there for him…." She lapsed into silence, and Xander knew she was talking about more than transportation. He nodded.

"Yeah, absolutely. We can do that." He gave her a reassuring smile and took her hand as they sat down on the couch. "Where will he go? I don't like the idea of him being all alone in that dark apartment of his."

Willow nodded. "I think here, for the moment."

"He'll be stubborn," Xander warned.

"Well yes, there is that," Willow agreed. "But he knows my Resolve Face." She tried to demonstrate, but she was less than convincing and broke into a grin after only a few moments. She was glad to see that it at least brought a small chuckle to her friend.

"Don't worry. We'll back you up." He glanced up, suddenly aware of the sunlight streaming through the curtains of the window behind them. He sprang up with a muttered curse.

"Oh boy–I forgot all about Anya! I bet she's worried sick. I didn't think to leave a note…."

Willow stood and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Relax. Spike went over there. If she wakes up, he'll knock and tell her you're ok." Xander looked at her like she had lost her mind.

"He what? Not making me feel any better, here, Will."

Willow shook her head. "No, really, it'll be all right, I think. Something's up with him, but…." She met his eyes seriously. "We're going to need him."

Xander pursed his lips and blew out a deep breath, then nodded. "Doomed vampire obsession. Great." He squeezed her hand, gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek. "I still better get going. Call me when you're ready to go over, or if you need anything, ok?"

"Sure thing."

* * *

Xander found Spike sitting with his back to the door, his legs stretched out straight, taking up most of the width of the darkened hallway. The vampire rose and dusted himself off as Xander joined him. 

"Not to worry, lad," he said by way of greeting. "She hasn't so much as stirred." He cocked his head for a moment, as if listening, then added, "Gettin' restless, though. Got back just in time, I'd say." He looked around and rubbed his hands together. "Well, I'll just be off, then. Where's the basement in this place? Any good sewer access?"

Xander stood there for a moment, keys in hand, regarding him with a look of utter disgust. Then, as he turned and unlocked the door, he heard himself say, "Come in, Spike."

Spike's eyes widened in mild surprise. "No really, that's all right," he began, but Xander cut him off.

"Just get in here, ok? And keep it down. We'll be heading to the hospital pretty soon anyway. You can–I don't know–sleep in a dark corner until we get back." He looked over the boyish vampire, noticing his tattered clothing and ugly wounds in the brighter light of the coming day. "You could get cleaned up, too." He paused, then, "After Anya showers," he amended quickly. "You have not seen true fury, until you see an ex-vengeance demon run out of hot water."


	2. Preparations and Farewells

Summer

Part 2/9 - Preparations and Farewells

FEEDBACK: Gleefully accepted.

DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.

A/N: Special thanks to antennapedia for challenging me to actually write the funeral scene, not punt because I didn't think I could do it justice.

* * *

As they approached the door to Giles' room, Willow suddenly remembered something. She glanced up at Xander. "Oh–did you swing by Giles' house? He'll need a change of clothes…" 

Xander raised the paper grocery sack he was carrying, in the hand his girlfriend was not grasping unusually tightly at the moment, and grinned reassuringly. "All over it, Will," he said. "Relax." He squeezed Anya's hand and looked down into her wide eyes, the admonishment as much for her as Willow. "Everything's gonna be fine."

As they crossed the threshold, Willow released her own girlfriend's hand. A moment later, Tara felt a curious shifting in the mystical energies around them, and looked to Willow with some alarm.

"Oh, no, it's ok." Willow said quickly. "I just set a ward on the room–you know, something to keep him safe overnight…." If Tara sensed the lie in the words, she gave no sign of it. Giles' eyes began to flutter open, and Willow rushed to take his hand as the rest of the gang crowded around the bed.

Giles squinted through the misty blur around him, feeling rather than being able to see that everyone was here, and safe. The gentle smile faded as he sensed the one who was missing, and remembered why. He seemed to wither then, and as the terrible realization washed through him, he burst into sobs that wracked his battered frame. Willow pulled him close and held him like a child.

"Uh… why don't you guys give us a few minutes."

Willow motioned with her head towards the open door, and they retreated slowly, Xander pausing to remind her quietly, "We'll be right outside, Will." She merely nodded, continuing to murmur soothingly as her friend clung to her and wept.

At last, Giles quieted. "I couldn't do that last night," he said in a raspy whisper. "Wanted to, but… couldn't remember quite why…."

A guilty look crossed Willow's worried brow, and she held him tighter for a moment before she pulled back to look him directly in the eyes. "It's going to be ok, Giles," she told him. "I promise."

"Yes," he agreed, drawing strength from her conviction. "We will get through this. Together. We always have…." But the reminder that this was not like always, and never would be again, brought another sob to his throat, and Willow steadied him with another embrace.

"She'd want us to stick together," Willow reminded him, smiling through her own tears. After a few moments, Giles released her and began to peer myopically around the room, a little embarrassed.

"Now where the devil did they put my glasses?" he wondered aloud, trying to reclaim his British dignity, and fooling no one.

Willow looked around the room for a moment and shook her head.

"Don't see them," she answered, rising. "I'll go find them for you."

His hand grasped hers as she took a step away, halting her. "Don't go," he begged, quietly. She immediately sat down on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in both her smaller ones, really noticing for the first time the many scars, touching the whiter outline marking the place where he usually wore the familiar black onyx ring on the last finger of his left hand.

After a moment's silence, Willow managed a teasing grin. "I'll have to, eventually." She pointed out the grocery sack Xander had left in the chair by the door. At his puzzled look, she added, "We brought you a change of clothes. This open backed cotton gown look is just so passé this season." He laughed a little, in spite of himself. "That is," she continued, "if you're ready to get out of here."

A voice from the doorway startled them. "Not so fast, there, little lady. Let's see how that patient of mine is doing this morning, first." Giles rolled his eyes but submitted patiently to the examination, still holding one of Willow's hands as she moved to stand out of the way next to his pillow. The doctor flipped back through the chart and nodded approvingly.

"Remarkable improvement," he said at last. "I do excellent work, I must say." Willow suppressed a grin, glad that Giles' eyes were too weak to catch her expression. "I think, if you can promise your dad will get lot of Rest, he can go home today. How does that sound?"

Neither of them bothered to correct him, and the doctor left, saying a nurse would be around shortly to give him his paperwork and discharge instructions. Xander poked his head around the door as the doctor departed.

"Hey, G-man," he said, and grinned as Willow waved him in.

"Don't call me that," Giles replied, automatically, and Xander's grin grew wider.

"Here, Giles, Xander can help you get dressed. I'll go find your glasses."

Giles gave her hand a last gentle squeeze before releasing it. His green eyes met hers. "Thank you, Willow," he said.

She waved it off modestly. "Forget it. No problem." In that moment she had transformed back to the gawky, shy Willow he had always known, but the competent and mature young woman was there, too. The thought was strangely comforting. She stood for a moment at the door, then turned away, in search of their friends.

Willow found them in the waiting room down the hall. As she approached, Dawn called out, "Willow, will you Please tell Anya that Giles is fine, that he is not going to die of bubonic plague, boils, cholera, or bunny bites…"

"Hey!" Anya protested. "No bunny talk–I never said anything about bunnies, and anyway…."

"He's fine, and they're getting ready to let him out now," Willow quickly interrupted. Dawn gave Anya her most irritating "so there" toss of the head and jumped up to hug Willow. Tara hid her smile behind her hand.

"Oh, that's good to hear," Anya said, and she meant it.

* * *

Giles sat, mostly reclined, on the couch in the Summers' living room, his glasses on the table at his head, under the lamp. It was easier for him to be here with them off–when the world was in sharp focus, so were all things that could trigger random memories of Buffy–framed photographs on the walls, notes scribbled in her own unique and quite illegible handwriting, a hair ribbon, a tube of lipstick–the thousand endearing bits of clutter that were all that remained of her life. 

He was so dreadfully tired. He listened to the others as they moved through the house, each busying their hands and hearts with chores, preparations, anything. Willow was on the phone, her voice subdued, but steady. Doors opened and shut. Every fiber of his being ached, and he tried more than once to rouse himself to join in the activity, knowing it for what it was, a distraction from even greater pain. But he had to admit, his age was finally catching up with him. That, and everything seemed so pointless, now. She was gone. He wished he were, too.

It was a relief to hear Willow's calm, rational voice on the phone in the next room. The only thing worse than the realization that Buffy was gone, was the fear that they might be expecting him to lead them now. He was so adrift at the moment, and the thought of taking on any responsibility more strenuous than breathing filled him with an icy horror. As did the thought of continuing on without his Slayer.

Anya appeared in the doorway, a bowl steaming on a small tray in her hands. A bright, desperate smile twisted her features-- the smile she pasted on whenever the realities of this moral coil business overwhelmed her. He replaced his glasses and sat up a little straighter, noting her pale face and red rimmed eyes.

"I've brought you some soup," she announced, loudly, as always. Something of his grief induced nausea must have flickered across his features, because she immediately added, a little more tentatively, "Food is supposed to help, right? At a time like this?"

He gave her a patient smile. "Yes, Anya. How very thoughtful of you." She relaxed a little as he took the tray from her and contemplated the chicken broth and vegetables in the bowl. It did smell quite good, and he found his appetite recovering ever so slightly. He looked up to see her still watching him anxiously. As if embarrassed to be caught staring, she affected an air of nonchalant competence.

"It's been a while, but we village women knew how to deal with these things, back in the day," she said. "I read that people still bring food to the homes of the recently bereaved..."

"Ah... have you eaten anything, Anya?" Giles interrupted before she could go on. He knew his limits, and he didn't have the energy to follow her tactless misunderstandings of the last two millennia of human cultural practices. And she did look very pale and drawn, and fragile.

She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "There's too much to do. I'm really not hungry, anyway..." She seemed poised to retreat back into the kitchen. Giles cleared his throat.

"Anya." She stopped. "Please, do join me." He glanced down at his tray and picked up the fork, examining it from several angles before looking past it at her with one eyebrow raised quizically.

"Oh..." she flushed slightly. "Let me get you a spoon." She rushed out then, but when she returned, she had a second bowl and spoon for herself, She set hers on the coffee table and handed him his spoon. They ate for a time in companionable silence. Then Anya set her bowl down again, and tried to still her trembling hands. Giles glanced over, and set his own bowl aside, then, after a moment's hesitation, took both her hands in his. Something he could do. He reached deep within and found the old role, the wise mentor...

"I don't understand it, Giles," he heard her whisper brokenly. "How do you all stand it? Knowing this is coming? Knowing it could take anyone, anytime? How?"

The role failed Giles then, just as it had when Buffy had confronted him on the very first day, when he had pompously undertaken to tell he was there to "prepare her".

"For what?" she'd shot back. "For getting kicked out of school? For losing all of my friends? For having to spend all of my time fighting for my life and never getting to tell anyone because I might endanger them? Go ahead. Prepare me."

It was Dawn who came to his rescue from the doorway.

"The hardest thing in this world is to live in it," she repeated, her eyes very far away. Then she looked at Giles. "Buffy said that. Right before..." She caught Giles' look of horror and shook her head.

"She said to tell you that she... she figured it out." Dawn paused, as if trying to get the words exactly right. "That... this was the work she had to do. And that... she was okay." She came over to sit on Giles' other side, feeling strangely detached and calm. Until she suddenly saw it again in her mind's eye, her sister disappearing over the edge of the metal platform, leaping to her death... She had thought she was all cried out, but when Giles wrapped one strong arm around her, she dissolved again. It was several minutes before she recovered herself, accepting a proffered handkerchief gratefully.

Willow, Tara and Xander had gathered in the doorway from the kitchen. Xander cleared his throat, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Did somebody ring the chow bell?"

Dawn jumped up. "Yeah, I meant to come tell you it was ready." Before she could disappear back into the kitchen, Anya stopped her with a quiet question.

"What... what did she figure out?" Her tone was genuinely puzzled, but also hopeful. She spent so much of her time trying to figure things out, and just then it was comforting, to think that Buffy had done it, too.

It was Giles who supplied the answer. "She went to the desert and had a vision," he began, telling their friends how Buffy had been feeling her Slayer powers were changing her into something less... human. He concluded, "The First Slayer appeared to her, and told her that Death..." He took a deep breath, forced himself to continue, "That Death was her Gift."

Giles tried to take some comfort in the idea, that before she had died, Buffy had made some kind of peace with herself, but the cost of that peace, and the easy way out he was denied, filled him with a tired rage. He glanced up as Xander asked, "What else did she say, Dawn?"

Dawn smiled a little through her tears. "That she loved us all. And that we had to take of each other."

She stepped into Xander's brotherly hug.

"And so we shall," Giles said, reaching deep within himself for the strength to sound sure of himself, comforting, solid. He looked over at Willow, who was smiling through her own tears, Tara's arms around her from behind as both stood in the doorway. "You've been rather hard at work all morning," he noted, changing the subject.

Willow nodded, and the others moved to join him on the couch, where he accepted hugs from each of them in turn. The talk turned to the mundane details of plans and arrangements. Xander noted a big flaw almost immediately–no way was a casket going to fit through the door of the house. Giles solved that problem, saying in a somewhat distant voice, "The back door to the shop should be sufficiently wide."

It was decided that Xander would go pick up the casket in one of the construction company's trucks, and unload it with Spike's help once the back alley grew shaded enough to be safe for the vampire. Tara and Anya, who both had experience in preparing the dead for burial, would take care of that task and bring her to the shop later that evening. They would have a service of sorts in the training room, and perform the burial very late, after midnight, when hopefully no one would be up and about to see.

Giles said, as everyone began to disperse to attend to their tasks, "Willow." She stopped and turned back towards him as he asked, "What can I do?"

She saw it in his eyes -- his grief fueled need–to Do something. Anything. "I've saved the hardest task of all for you, I'm afraid."

Giles looked relieved and wary at the same time. "What might that be?" he asked, his eyes locked on hers.

"Someone has to write Buffy's eulogy," Willow told him simply. "I think it should be you."

* * *

Giles stared at the blank page in front of him, trying to find the words to express his thoughts. He recalled so many things–the flash of Buffy's warm smile. Her cool courage and sometimes even wit in the face of danger. Her fierce love and loyalty to her family, among whose members he felt honored to be numbered. But as each new thought flashed through his mind, it brought with it the feeling of utter futility, to put any of it into words. 

He sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes a moment before rising to move towards the kitchen. Anya and Dawn were bickering at the stove as he looked through the doorway putting his glasses back on, while Xander was completing a phone call and hanging up, calling for Willow through the other doorway. She appeared from the dining room and, catching sight of him, her brow creased in sudden concern.

"Giles–you should be resting," she admonished, as the others turned to look at him.

"Ah, well. I'm resting quite comfortably here," he replied mildly, indicating the door jamb on which he was leaning, a little too heavily. He was surprised that walking such a short distance alone had tired him so, but he quickly deflected the others' concern with a question. "Who was that on the phone?"

Xander traded looks with Willow, then spoke, addressing them all. "Montgomery Casket Company. If I can get over there by 5, I can get them to load it for me." He glanced back at Willow. "I think I should take off–you'll be ok for a while?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah, no worries. You've got the truck lined up, then?"

"Yep," Xander replied. "Told Tito it was for salvaging some stuff from that site we've been working near the old municipal building. Wanted to leave a little less for the looters." A worried expression crossed his face. "Which is actually true, now that I think about it." He started out the back door rapidly, firing over his shoulder, "I'll call you when we're ready."

"Hey, Mr. Giles," Tara said, as she appeared behind him. He shifted slightly to accept the hug as she came through the doorway. Then she turned to Willow. "I've got everything… uh… done, upstairs."

"I helped earlier," Anya announced from the stove, swatting at Dawn as the girl tried to dip a spoon into the surprisingly appetizing smelling sauce Anya was fussing over. "Go get something to drain the spaghetti, annoying child," she ordered. Giles would have smiled, but he was still back at Tara's "upstairs." Willow understood the look first.

"C'mon, Giles. We should go see her, don'tcha think?"

He nodded absently as Willow slid under the arm on his good, or at least, less-injured side and supported him on the slow journey upstairs. He didn't really see anything until he stood with Willow in the doorway to Joyce's bedroom, where a small figure was lying, clad in a simple black dress, a small silver cross around her neck. Buffy.

"I'll be right outside if you need me," Willow whispered, and closed the door behind him as she left him alone.

He knelt beside her, unaware of the tears flowing freely down his face. Tara had brushed her hair back and secured it with a gold clasp. It was the simple elegance of the hairstyle, more suitable for a quiet evening out than for sleep, that told him she was not in fact sleeping. He reached out to touch her cheek, still soft, but now quite cool.

After a time, his sobs eased, and he was aware of the pain in his side again. He traced every feature of her face, marking it indelibly into his memory. All the anguish, the heavy responsibility, the pain of her calling, and her life, were erased, replaced on her face by an angelic peace. He knew then, in the deepest part of his soul, that she was safe, and well, and not in the shell he saw lying before him. He bent forward and kissed her forehead gently. Then he rose and emerged quietly from the room, polishing his tear-stained glasses with the tail of his shirt.

"I think I should like to go home for a bit," he announced quietly, as Willow rose from the chair in the corner of Buffy's room to join him. "I'd, ah, like to get cleaned up and changed before, you know, tonight."

Willow's eyes were red, but she was calm as she nodded. "I thought you might. I sent Xander to stop by your place and bring you some of your dress clothes." She noted the flicker of surprise on his face at her presumption. "Well, we didn't want you falling in the shower alone," she said, with that practicality he had long known and admired. "And that tub of yours is pretty deep for you to be trying to climb in and out of in your condition."

She waited, watching him impassively, knowing she was right, until he nodded acquiescence. They were silent as she helped him back downstairs to the couch. Then he pulled the paper and pen towards him and began to write.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Xander came back through his own door. He was carrying a garment bag over one arm, and a couple of packs of blood pilfered from the hospital that morning by the ever-resourceful Dawn. It bugged him that Dawn had remembered Spike's needs at a time like this, but she was doing that with everyone today. She had spent much of the afternoon with Giles, sometimes talking in low tones to him about things she remembered about her sister, more often just sitting close by, her hand absently rubbing his shoulder, or bringing him a cup of tea. She had helped Anya and Tara by choosing the dress her sister would be buried in, and Willow by cleaning up the kitchen after a lunch none of them had really eaten. 

"Spike?" he called, hoping the vampire had decided to take off after all. No such luck. Spike emerged from the bathroom then, naked save for a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped around his shoulders. His injuries had mended somewhat–his broken ribs were now merely badly bruised and horribly discolored, and the knife wound to his left lung had sealed into an angry red scar which probably itched like hell. Xander watched as the vampire froze as he caught sight of him standing in the doorway, before casually recovering and toweling off his wet hair.

"You've looked better," Xander observed, tossing him a packet of blood, before turning to hang up the garment bag on the back of a door and then to place the other bag of blood in his refrigerator.

"Thanks," Spike said, too surprised by the unexpected gift to come up with a rejoinder. He turned away so Xander would not have to see his face change as he punctured and drained the bag. He did so quickly and felt slightly better as soon as he had finished. He went back into the bathroom, washed the blood from his lips, and returned.

"What now?" Spike asked, as he watched Xander rifling through his dresser drawer. He was surprised again to find a clean t-shirt and some other clothing tossed his way.

"Willow wants us to unload the casket down at the shop in about an hour." He proceeded to outline the plan for the evening, while Spike listened closely, dressing in the white t-shirt and exchanging his filthy black jeans for an old pair of Xander's which had always been too long and a little tight. They were a little loose on Spike, but not terribly so.

"Thanks for the loan, but I wish I had somethin' more proper to wear to a funeral," Spike said quietly as he finished dressing, pulling on his boots and looking anywhere but towards Xander.

"I don't think I have anything that would fit you." Xander replied, his back turned as a opened a closet door. He continued over his shoulder, "I brought something for Giles from his place, but I don't think anything of his would work for you, either."

"Yeah. Well, not to worry. I know where I can get something when the sun goes down. There should be time after we finish unloading…." He trailed off and glanced the window, nodding towards the daylight still apparent through the drawn shade. "How am I gonna get to the shop, though?"

Xander was pulling his old sleeping bag from a closet and unfolding it. "I parked in the shade around back–I figure this should keep the stray sunbeams off you on the drive over."

Spike looked at it dubiously, but nodded. "That should do it. I'm ready when you are, then, Mate."

* * *

Giles and Anya were dozing now at opposite ends of the couch, and Dawn was upstairs showering and dressing for the service tonight. Willow was tapping keys on her laptop and frowning as Tara came up to give her a hug from behind. Willow pushed away from the dining room table and turned to give her beloved a hug and kiss. "Hey," she breathed as they broke apart and she gazed up into Tara's eyes. 

Tara smiled down on her beatifically. "Has anyone ever told you how amazing you are?"

Willow blushed. "Not lately," she answered. "But, unfortunately, I'm not." She frowned as she glanced back at the screen of her computer.

Tara smiled. "I seriously doubt that. What's wrong?"

"I can't get a gravestone for at least a month, maybe more. Every shop in the area has a backlog you wouldn't believe." She turned her dark, sad eyes up to meet Tara's blue ones. "A lot of people died last night."

"It wasn't your fault, Sweetie," Tara reminded her. "How many more would have if Glory had won? We did all we could. Especially you."

Willow's eyes began to brim over then. Before she could protest, Tara kissed her again, then looked deep into her eyes. "Don't torture yourself like this. There was nothing more any of us could have done."

Willow nodded sadly. "I know. It just doesn't help." She stood up and wrapped her arms around her love. "And I feel so guilty, that I don't feel worse. You know? That I have you, and who does Giles have? Or Dawn? Or god help us all, Spike? What does that make me?" She turned her pleading eyes to Tara's wise ones.

"It makes you human, Willow. And you're still doing what needs to be done, now. That's something. I know how hard it is for you. You can do this. I know you can." They stood resting in each other's embrace for a long moment.

Then the phone rang, and Willow reluctantly disengaged herself to answer it. Tara watched as Willow listened intently, then sighed. "Thanks, Xander," she heard her say at last. "I'll send them over as soon as I can." She gave her small, elfin smile, as she said her goodbyes. "Yeah, I love you too." She hung up and turned back to Tara.

"They're ready. At the shop. Spike's gone out for a bit, Xander didn't say why. Can you and Anya…?"

Tara nodded. "Anya was saying she wanted to go home and change. We should both go, and I can pick you up something on my way back. That sound ok?"

Willow nodded. "I've missed you so much," she breathed as she embraced Tara once more. "And I so don't deserve you."

Tara smiled through her tears. "Don't be silly, Love." They kissed again, slow and lingering, before parting to wake Anya, and to make ready to send Buffy's body to the shop where her casket, and Xander, awaited them.

* * *

Xander stood alone at the back door of the shop and watched as the Summers' SUV pulled up, driven by Tara, accompanied by Anya. He nodded in silent greeting as they parked as close to the door as they could in the narrow alley. Anya climbed down and opened the passenger side rear door, and Xander saw the sheet-wrapped form resting prone across the back seat. 

"Hold the door for me, Ahn," he said softly, as he moved to gather the still figure into his arms. He marveled at how slightly built she was, how despite her superhuman strength, she had been so fragile and delicate. Tara preceded him through the door and went to the casket, working the latch so that both sides of the lid opened. Anya closed the door to the alley behind them, tugging it a little as it stuck.

"Lay her down on the mat for a minute," Tara instructed quietly, and he did so, then stepped back to place a comforting arm around Anya. Tara unwrapped the body of their friend. Then she nodded at him. "Help me lift her in, and then I'll fix her hair."

Xander released Anya and moved as if in a dream to help settle Buffy's body in the satin-lined casket. He supported her body as Tara arranged her hair one last time, then slowly helped ease her back onto the cream colored pillow. Tara crossed Buffy's arms across her breast, and, after surveying her work for a moment more, turned and closed the bottom half of the casket. They all stood in silence for a time, Xander rising to return to Anya, whose eyes were wide and sad. He reached out with his other arm and Tara joined them, shaking a little. They had been fighting all manner of demons, monsters and hell gods for what seemed like forever, but this…. This was… real.

After a time, Tara stirred. "I should get over to the dorm, pick up some things for Willow," she said apologetically. Xander blinked hard and nodded.

"Yeah, Ahn and I should be getting back, too," he said hoarsely. "We need to get ready for… tonight."

Anya spoke up. "But–we can't leave her here alone, can we?" They lingered uncertainly. Then a new voice sounded from the doorway to the storefront behind them.

"Don't worry," Spike said, his voice low but steady. "I can stay."

He was dressed in a black suit, a little long in the sleeves, and a crisp white shirt, holding a black tie in one hand. He looked a bit lost, like a small boy dressed up for the first time, uncomfortable in his own skin. He also looked like he was bracing for an argument, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face when Xander merely nodded at him in silent thanks and escorted Tara and Anya out the back door to the alley. Spike moved to the couch and sank heavily down, leaning his head back until it rested against the rough, exposed bricks of the wall.

* * *

Spike retreated to the relative quiet of the shop when the others came back through the alley door for the service. He wasn't sure now, that he could do this after all. He couldn't make up his mind which was worse-- the pain that seemed to burn through his very lack of a soul, or having these wankers witness it. And then, of course, there was Dawn, a walking, breathing reproach, all the worse for the pity in her gentle eyes. 

He busied trembling hands several times trying to work a knot he had never quite learned. In his day, the fashion had been much different, and he'd always had someone, a servant or his mum, or later, Drusilla, to do these things for him. After the fourth attempt he was about to rip the offending strip of black silk from around his neck and throw it across the room in frustration, when he heard Willow's voice from the doorway behind him.

"Hey. Want some help?"

Spike looked towards the heavens and bit back the first three obscene retorts that sprang to mind. Willow moved forward without waiting for a reply, turning him to face her for a moment while she adjusted the length of the two sides of the tie, then motioning for him to sit in the nearest chair while she knotted the tie from behind, with her hands over his shoulders. She moved to face him again, sliding the knot up into place at his throat and adjusting his collar over it. She nodded approvingly at the result. "There you go."

"Thanks," Spike said softly. Then, as the silence became uncomfortable, he asked, "Where'd you learn to tie a sodding tie, anyway?"

Willow smiled a little at the memory. "Who do you think helped Xander get ready for my bat mitzvah? Of course," she continued, indicating the chair, "I was about a foot taller than he was, back then." She searched his face. "You ready?"

Spike fished nervously around in his pockets for a cigarette, before remembering he'd left them in the pocket of his leather duster, back in his crypt. He inclined his head, motioned for her to precede him through the door. "As I'll ever be."

* * *

Giles stood beside the open casket, facing the others as Willow and Spike slipped through the door from the shop. "Ah, yes..." He made sure he knew which pocket his handkerchiefs were folded into, pulled out one and brushed quickly at his eyes under his glasses. He sniffed, pulled himself together. "Lets...ah.. get on with it, shall we?" 

He began to speak in a low voice, hearing his words as if from very far away. "When I was quite young, I learned that there was a Slayer-- one girl in all the world chosen to stand between this sorry world and the forces of darkness. She never had a choice, of course. No more than I. Watchers are also Chosen, you see."

He cleared his throat and continued, "I remember feeling a little sorry for her, then. I was sure she wanted to do and be other things, just as I did. " He chuckled a little, gave a tight grin which quickly faded. "I was a little angry with her too, wherever she was. Until I met Buffy, I never realized that, with all the pains and burdens of the calling, anyone could do it with such joy, such cheerful abandon."

He paused, looked at each of them in turn. "She had something few Slayers are allowed to have. She had a loving family, friends. She had you. I believe you all know how much she loved you. She lies there precisely because she loved you. She laid down her very life for you. What you may not realise was just how much you gave her. You were her lifeline, her anchor, you see. You kept her grounded, gave her the strength and the will to fight. You gave her a Life. She was never merely a tool to be ordered about and discarded. You reminded her, of who she was. And I, at least, shall always be grateful for that."

He pulled a small, well-worn book from the inside pocket of his jacket. Bound in faded brown leather, its pages were marked by thin ribbons dangling from it, one red, one blue, one green. He selected one and opened the volume. "I realise we represent many beliefs, many traditions," he said, with an apologetic glance towards Willow. "But this one is mine. And since Buffy spent so many sleepless nights fighting the darkness, I think it only fitting that we should pray this, now."

He began to read, quietly at first. "_Lux aeterna_..."

Spike joined him, as if in a daze, reciting some long forgotten memory of the altar boy he once had been,"..._luceat eis, Domine_." Giles blinked a little in surprise, but continued, his voice growing ever stronger. "_Cum sanctis tuis in aeternum: quia pius es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis_."

Then Giles translated, with the vampire echoing, "May light eternal shine upon her, O Lord, in the company of thy Saints forever, for thou art merciful." Giles faltered then. This did not feel like mercy. But now was not the time. He had to be strong for these dear children, to offer them a comfort which did not begin to touch him. Nonetheless, he could not find his voice as Spike went on alone.

"Rest eternal grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. Amen."

* * *

Spike wished the hellmouth would swallow him right there. If it took all of them out together, so much the better. He finally got it, then. The woman they mourned was someone he had never really known. Someone who had been part of their world, the world of the living, of light. The Buffy he had known, and yes, had loved, was the creature of the darkness, like him. Something these people could never have accepted or understood. And it filled him with a seething rage, that this should be so. That they had so often blithly ignored that vital, core part of who she had been. That they were continuing to do it now seemed an affront to her memory.

But now was not the time, and Spike pushed his demon away as he and Xander moved forward and closed the casket for the last time. Tara held Dawn close as they both wept helplessly. Giles stood blinking as if he had just been awakened from-- or to-- a nightmare, then accepted a hug from Willow. Spike used his demon's strength to lift one end of the casket alone, as the others came forward to grasp the handles along the sides to carry it out to the waiting truck in the alley.

At the cemetery, they found a freshly-dug grave, courtesy of Willow's nocturnal hacking adventures, set up and ready for them. The next day, the work schedule would be altered in their computers to reflect that a crew had completed the burial, and between that and a slight memory altering spell, Willow hoped nobody would notice or question how this grave had come to be filled in overnight.

They used the machine to lower the casket into the grave, and Giles threw the first shovelful of dirt down, intoning the "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" part of the ritual. He broke down then, and Willow pulled him close again while Xander and Spike stripped to their shirtsleeves to finish the grim task.

And then, finally, it was over. Spike thought to walk away, unable to speak or even to see, but Dawn suddenly appeared before him. The look of compassion in her brimming eyes was more than he could bear. But he saw she needed something from him, and after a long moment, he pulled her into a tight embrace. He found himself whispering in her ear, "If you need anything, anything at all, you let me know." He pulled back to look into her eyes. "Got it?" She nodded, unable to speak, and he kissed the top of her head. "Good girl." He released her into Tara's care, nodded curtly at the rest of them, and stalked forth into the night, back towards his crypt on the other side of the cemetery.


	3. Muddling Through

Summer

Part 3/9 - Muddling Through

FEEDBACK: Gleefully accepted. Oh yes.

DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.

A/N: I have deliberately avoided reading fics dealing with this time frame, so as not to have them accidentally influence my own work. But I must give credit where it's due–I'm almost positive this scene owes a lot to the Virtual Lunatics and their masterful 8th Season of BtVS. Their domestic scenes, and the affection shared by the characters, and just the amazingly good writing and characterization–well, when I grow up, I want to write like that, too. So, thanks, Lunatics, and remember that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I don't think I've crossed into plagiarism, but if I have, I'm really sorry.

(Anyone who hasn't visited virtualunatics dot com should do so at your earliest convenience. Great stuff. I was surprised, checking on it just now, that the site is still up—this note is over 3 years old.)

New A/N: _At least from here the length gets more manageable. Also becomes more centered on the two characters the story turned out to be about: Giles and Spike. Man, and monster, and how do you tell the difference?  
_

* * *

One week later, Giles sat motionless at the counter in the Summers kitchen, watching the first light of morning peeking through the trees outside the window. He stirred as he heard the tea kettle begin to whistle, and he prepared himself a cup mechanically, much as he had been doing everything for the past 7 days. While he was around the others, he made an effort to behave normally, to engage himself in conversation and shared tasks–household chores, planning ways to keep Dawn's situation from her father and the authorities, even helping Willow with the thrice-accursed robot, though he felt vaguely ill every time he saw it. But when he was alone, he himself was more robot than man, going through the motions of living. 

Willow had left the previous afternoon for Los Angeles. She thought someone should tell Angel in person, especially since they had not been able to reach anyone by phone, and he had agreed that Buffy would have wanted that. He was actually glad she had gone, because she had been quite opposed to his returning home, and he had not had the energy to argue with her. Today, however, he intended to go out to the shop for the day, and sleep in his own bed tonight. He glanced up as Tara joined him in the kitchen.

"Hey, Mr. Giles. You're up early." He nodded and took another sip of his tea.

"Good morning, Tara," he replied. He watched her pulling out the ingredients for pancakes and observed, "You're doing a wonderful job, here, you know. You and Willow both."

Tara blushed and ducked her head a little at the praise, but he was pleased on some level to see, not as much as she might have even six months ago. Her growing self confidence was not just a result of her relationship with Willow, but also of her increasing security in the family which had gathered itself together here, and a distant part of him was glad. "Well, you know, j-just trying to keep things as normal as possible, for Dawn," she replied, with almost no hint of her old stutter. She began measuring the flour into a bowl. "Um, funny shapes or rounds?"

Giles smiled a little at the question, which had become something of a ritual over the past week. "Let Dawn decide," he suggested, having no preference himself. He watched her pause in her mixing to fill a glass of water and take a pill from the bottle on the counter. "How are your headaches?" he asked gently.

She looked up, her expression guilty and haunted. Growing up in the MacLay family, she was still sometimes uncomfortable when anyone noticed her. And she didn't want her friends to worry. But Giles' expression deserved the truth, so she replied, "Better, but still not gone."

"And the dreams?"

They had all had dreams, but hers had included the dark place in her own mind where Glory's spell had trapped her. He was not surprised, now that he thought of it, to see her up so much earlier than usual–Willow's presence had sometimes not been enough to comfort her when she had the dreams. Just a couple of days ago, it had taken all three of them-- Willow, Dawn, and himself to bring her out of it and back to herself. Having Willow gone last night must have been difficult.

Tara shrugged. "The same." She turned back to her pancake batter, and Giles took another sip of his tea. They lapsed into companionable silence for a few moments.

Tara spoke up. "W-Willow and I were talking before she left. We need to find a way to get the school to accept Dawn's absences this past couple of weeks, let her make up her work and take her exams, you know? Any ideas?"

Giles sighed. He wished Principal Snyder were still alive, and he could just go bully the stupid git into doing the right thing. He considered for a time.

"Well, we could send a letter from LA, purportedly from ah, from Buffy, stating that a family emergency had arisen and she had forgotten to call the school before departing. We can ask that the school give her assignments to one of us, and upon Dawn's return we can make arrangements for her to turn in her work and take her exams, perhaps a few weeks into the summer term."

Tara gave a relieved smile. "I told Willow you would think of something. That would give us time to tutor her, and get her caught up a little. She wasn't focusing very well even before… before her mom…."

Giles felt a pang, remembering the other loss they had endured so recently. To Tara he said, "Once we see what her assignments look like, we should be able to come up with a study plan for her. We certainly don't want to be sending her back to school just yet, after all that's happened." A new thought struck him. "We also don't want her spending time with any of her schoolmates, nor being seen by any of them while she's supposedly away."

Tara nodded. "I'll be sure to mention it to Willow when she gets back. And Dawn, when she gets up, though I don't think she's in the mood for socializing with her friends just yet."

"Got that right," Dawn chimed in from the doorway. She came in and gave Giles a hug as she crossed behind him to open the refrigerator and pour herself a glass of juice.

Tara smiled at her. "Funny shapes or rounds?"

Dawn shrugged. "Surprise me." She turned to Giles. "What dark plan are you guys hatching today?"

Giles took another sip of his tea before replying. "We've decided we need to do something to make things right with your school before they begin to get suspicious over your absence. Not to mention," he added, with a ghost of a grin playing at his lips, "you really should get an education, or what passes for one in this country."

Dawn groaned. "It's almost the end of school anyway. Can't I just start fresh next year?"

Tara flipped a pancake expertly and said, "If we don't take care of this now, there might not be a next year. Plus, you'll be all behind. And possibly taken away from us."

Dawn looked scared for a minute, then nodded. "Ok, I'm feeling really scholastically motivated all of a sudden."

Giles beamed at her. "Excellent. That's settled then." He lapsed back into silence, and his eyes took on that far away expression they had been noticing more and more of late. Dawn watched him for a moment, frowning, then turned her attention to Tara.

"So I guess going to the mall's out, too, huh?" Tara smiled fondly at her and handed her a plate of pancakes, but didn't dignify the weak jest with a reply, only the slightly raised eyebrow that reminded Dawn, for just a moment, of her mom. Giles didn't act as if he had even heard, though he stirred a little when Tara placed a plate in front of him. He murmured his thanks and began to eat, his eyes still a million miles away.

Dawn nudged him with her elbow until he looked at her. "Um, you want syrup on those?" she asked, handing the bottle to him.

He looked down. "Ah yes. Quite." He took the bottle and poured. Tara brought her own plate over and joined them, smiling when he offered the bottle to her.

Dawn looked at him, traded a glance with Tara, then asked, "So what's everybody else doing today?"

When Giles didn't reply, Tara said, "I'm going to see what I can do about my school situation, and Willow's. I got a medical leave, so all I really will need is a doctor's letter, and I should be able to make up my work and take my exams late, kind of like we're hoping you will. I'm not sure what we're going to do about Willow." She paused. "What about you, Giles?"

"What?" He looked up, with the familiar deer in the headlights expression that always made Dawn smile. Giles finished replaying the last question in his mind, then responded, "Oh, I think I'll go in to the shop today for a few hours. And then home." He turned his attention back to his breakfast, avoiding the disappointment in Dawn's eyes, and missing the thoughtful acceptance in Tara's.

Tara spoke before Dawn could issue a protest. "I think that's a good idea. That couch can't be comfortable. And some space might be really good for you." Giles looked up, surprised, but relieved. Tara continued, "But you still better be over here for dinner. A lot."

"Yeah," Dawn added. "You're teaching me how to cook, remember? You promised."

Giles smiled ruefully. "Of course. I just need, as you say, some space."

"Can I come with you?" Dawn asked. "Just to the shop. I kind of could use some space, too," she confided. Giles nodded, and she favored him with a smile so like her sister's that it pierced his heart. He turned his eyes back to his plate quickly, before either of his companions could notice the sudden tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

* * *

Dawn was quiet on the drive over to the shop. Giles parked in his usual spot, but he did not go through the back door, choosing instead to walk through the alley and around the block to the shop's front door. Dawn followed thoughtfully, and, truth be told, a little relieved that they had not gone through the training room. Buffy's space. Her bedroom at home stayed closed, too, and Giles had flatly refused her bed the first time he had tried to convince Willow to let him go home, using the uncomfortable couch as his excuse. He was too tall for that bed, Dawn knew. But she also knew it was more than that, and she understood. 

They entered the front door of the shop, the bell above the door announcing them to Anya, who was counting the money in the register in preparation for the day's business. She looked tired, but she smiled to see them both. "Dawn! Giles! Thank the gods. I could really use the help today. It's been crazy in here…."

As Anya continued to wax poetic on the subject of the effects of dimensional portals opening in downtown Sunnydale on their occult business, Giles walked slowly to the large round table in the middle of the shop. The last time he had seen it, it had been piled high with open books and scraps of parchment, a half-eaten box of donuts, scattered pens and pencils, and various pads of paper with scribbled notes on them. It was now cleared off, and looked as if it had been not only washed, but actually polished. He ran a finger over its smooth surface absently. Anya paused in her recitations of capitalist victories, as she noted the far off look in his eyes. She and Dawn traded a look, and Dawn moved to give her a hug. "Let's go bring some stuff up from the store-room," the teenager suggested quietly. Giles did not even notice when they left him alone.

He replayed that awful night in his mind as he rested his hand on the back of a chair. How he had lost his temper with his Slayer, rising from this chair to demand that she consider killing her own sister to save the world. The same sister who had kept him going these past days with her unconditional acceptance and love, who had at times lost her own temper and forced Willow to back off when she got too demanding trying to pull him from his grief back into the world, or when she pushed too hard for information he was unwilling to talk about. Like spells, or speculating on exactly where Buffy had ended up. Like her sister before her so many times, Dawn had risen to this crisis. Giles had enough experience with teenagers from Buffy and her friends, to know that it couldn't last. And in fact, he didn't want it to. She was a child, and she shouldn't be trying to take on adult responsibilities, trying to take care of everyone else around her. But he had to admit he appreciated her efforts, and they only made him feel all the more guilty, when he remembered how ready he had been to take her life for the greater good. And when he admitted, in his innermost heart, how much he wished it had been her death that had stopped the latest apocalypse.

But Buffy had made her choice, and at the moment, he could honor it, and her, by taking care of the only family she had left. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a moment, then replaced them as Anya and Dawn came back into the shop from the basement, carrying a box of chicken feet and other assorted ingredients for the talismans that seemed, from Anya's incessant commentary, to be in high demand in the wake of the events of that night a week ago. He tuned in and began listening as she was winding down her narrative of the various strange creatures and events their customers had confided they had seen.

When Anya paused and looked expectantly at him, he cleared his throat and gave a tight smile. "Yes, well. Perhaps if you get a little time, today, Anya, you could write down some of this and I could research it…." He realized, from her expression, that research was not going to come remotely close to taking care of what she had been describing. He continued, "…a- and, of course, I'll call the Council today and see what resources we can get to clean some of this up." He himself remembered a dragon flying away into the night, just as the portal had closed.

Anya looked slightly mollified. Dawn frowned, and Giles knew she read in his eyes, how little he was looking forward to that phone call, how in fact he had mentioned it several times over the past week but had yet to work up the courage to make it. What would he say? _Yes, my Slayer's dead, and unless a new one's been called, we're going to have a bloody mess on our hands here at the Hellmouth_… But it had to be done, and now was as good a time as any. He left them to their shelf stocking, while he went over to his desk and began to dial, before he lost his nerve, praying he wouldn't have to talk to Quentin Travers, his old nemesis and superior, directly.

Of course, Quentin had left strict orders for calls from the Hellmouth to be put through, to his home, if necessary, so calling early only meant that he had a few minutes to wait in silence while the duty officer forwarded the call to Travers. Though he'd sounded a bit bleary at first, when he did hear the news, Giles had been surprised, and touched, that the condolences the older Watcher offered him sounded quite genuine.

"She was the finest Slayer, and woman, I have ever had the honor of knowing, Rupert. I am truly sorry for your loss. And ours." Travers had agreed to send a few teams from the Council, to clean up the various creatures that had come through the dimensional rifts before Buffy's death had sealed them up again. He listened with interest as Giles described the robot, and their plans to use it to keep up the pretense that the Slayer was still alive, until the new one could be located and sent. They left unsaid, the fear that a new one would Not be called, knowing that Buffy's previous death, no matter how short a time before she had been revived, had already called first Kendra, and upon that Slayer's death, the unstable Faith, now serving what was effectively a life term for murder in a maximum security women's penitentiary near Los Angeles.

They agreed that they would adopt a wait and see attitude–if a new Slayer had not been activated upon Buffy's death (and as yet, it seemed this was in fact the case), they would wait until a serious situation developed before getting Faith released to deal with it. Travers said he would send some of his people to evaluate her again, noting that she had shown marked improvement since the last time they had seen her, and that she seemed serious about making amends for her actions. Neither of them had to say, that if Faith had wanted to leave prison, she could, of course, have done so at any time. Giles was surprised to hear in Quentin's voice, a grudging respect for Faith's decision to go to prison rather than back to the Council, even as it irked him not to have her under his direct control.

Just before they said their goodbyes, Quentin surprised Giles again. "Um, Rupert…" he began. Giles waited silently, a bemused expression on his face. "I know this must be terribly difficult for you. But we need you to stay there, at least until we get the situation under control again. I imagine it is very painful for you to remain. But once we get things secured, if you would like to come back here for a while, get away from all the memories…. Well. We would be honored to have you."

Giles knew that as the Watcher of the longest lived and most successful Slayer in recent memory, Quentin's offer was on one level simply his trying to take advantage of a bad situation. But the man's tone as he said it still brought a lump to Giles' throat. Travers was undeniably a pompous ass. And he would just as soon stab Giles in the back as look at him, should he return to London and the Council. But he was also, at heart, a Watcher. And Giles had no doubt Travers understood, on an instinctive level, a level he kept at further than arm's length most of the time, that the bond between Slayer and Watcher was a profound one. He might only dimly guess what it was Rupert had lost, but even that sounded almost more than the old man could bear.

Giles swallowed hard. "Thank you, Quentin. That's very considerate of you." He paused a moment, then said simply, "I should go. Please let me know when your people are due to arrive." They exchanged goodbyes and Giles replaced the receiver slowly in its cradle. He stared at it a moment, then turned and busied himself helping Anya and Dawn arrange the shelves in preparation for the store's opening.

A few hours, and a couple dozen or so customers later, after Giles (or Anya) had removed several particularly dangerous items or books from Dawn's hands as she amused herself while they were occupied elsewhere, Giles firmly steered her to the empty research table. He fixed his eyes, now a watery grey in this light, on the sullen teen. "Dawn," he began seriously. "I have an important job for you."

She brightened considerably. 'Oh, can I do research? Because you know, I am So ready for that…." She wilted a little as Giles gently shook his head.

"More important than even that, I'm afraid," he replied, and Dawn eyed him warily, reading the hint of amusement behind his expressive eyes.

"Liar," she pouted, and Giles had to smile, even though the tone, and the facial expression, were so like her sister's that it took his breath away.

He continued mildly, "More important to me, anyway." He pulled out a notepad and a pen from behind the counter and placed them before the girl, who now had her arms crossed rebelliously across her chest as she slouched lower in her chair. He reached out and touched her chin, tilting her head until she was forced to look into his eyes. "I need you to do this for me. Will you?"

She rolled her eyes, but she could no more deny him when he asked like that, than her sister had been able to. "Okay, already. What?"

Giles repressed another grin. "I want you to write up for me what classes you were taking at school–not only who taught them, but what you were learning, what you found difficult, what you liked about each one. And where you were when… well, when your life began to become… complicated. So we can see what we need to do to help get you back on track." He paused, then added, with an appropriately stern expression, "And this is an essay test, not short answer. I really want to know everything you can think of." His expression softened a little at her scowl, which he could tell was only half serious. She was inwardly thrilled that someone was actually interested enough to ask her to do this. She brightened even more when he added his final statement. "Please." Her sister had seldom been able to resist it, and he could tell Dawn had the same weakness.

Muttering under her breath, she uncapped the pen and began. He clapped a hand on her shoulder for a moment, then went back to assist Anya with an overweight and quite unpleasant professional woman who wanted something to banish bad dreams. If only he had anything that could really help, he thought. He'd try it himself. He pasted on a pleasant expression and intercepted his associate before Anya could say something tactless. And, so far as they knew, the remainder of the day passed without notable incident.


	4. The Business of Living

Summer

Part 4/9 - The Business of Living

DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.

A/N: I'm kind of surprised at the response this is getting, as it's pretty old, and my first fanfic, and in a 'verse that has so many other archives where most of its fans get their fic fix. But a couple of people here have been very faithful about reviewing, and I don't see the point in dragging things out for them, since it really is finished. So here's another section. It's teetering on the edge of being a story, though it's not there yet. Thanks for reading and reviewing.

* * *

Xander stood on the back porch of the Summers residence after supper, enjoying a breath of fresh air, and more, a brief respite from the tension inside the house. Giles was going home tonight, though just now he was sitting the living room with Dawn discussing some "essay" he'd forced her to write. Xander wasn't clear on the details of that, though he was sure Anya had probably explained at some length on the drive over. Dawn wasn't happy Giles was leaving them, though she was trying, and failing miserably, to be a good sport about it. Tara was her usual serene and unflappable self, but Xander was getting the undercurrent of worry, about how Willow would react when she returned from LA to find Giles gone. And then there was Anya. Clearing the table with Tara, and shooting daggers at him with her eyes whenever she thought no one, especially Xander, was looking at her. 

She was hurt, that he wanted to hold off on telling their friends he had proposed to her. And he knew she felt guilty and confused for feeling that way, when everyone around her was still in so much pain themselves. Guilt and confusion were not emotions Anya had ever dealt with well. And, when Xander was honest with himself, he knew that Anya was picking up his own doubts and fears about taking that final step into adulthood, and they were making her even more frightened and insecure.

For some reason he couldn't figure out, it was different when they were alone. Then they could just hold each other, and grieve, and be there for each other, and everything felt right. But when they were with their friends, Anya began to get increasingly moody and irritable, and the more she tried not to show how she was feeling, the worse it got. Xander sighed, then noticed as he took another breath that the air was suddenly a little less fresh. Secondhand smoke, from the lungs of a creature who was Dead, for crying out loud. He shook his head to derail That particular train of thought, as the blond vampire emerged from behind his favorite lurking tree.

Spike flicked the cigarette away and grinned at Xander's expression of disgust. "Missed you too, Luv." Then he nodded in the direction of the house, his expression serious. "Everythin' alright?"

Xander paused and glanced back over his shoulder for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah. Giles is going home tonight."

Spike raised his eyebrows. "Bet Red loves that." He cocked his head, listening. "I don't hear her reading him the riot act, though."

Xander grinned a little. "She's still in LA."

Spike nodded knowingly, and Xander found himself irritated, though he wasn't sure whether it was because Spike had observed how Willow had become take charge girl of late, or because he found himself agreeing with the vampire's unspoken attitude about it. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "You're back early tonight."

Spike crossed the yard and settled himself on the steps. "I usually start patrolling here, just to see the Niblet's okay. So, Giles'll be at his flat later? I suppose he'll want me to report in there, instead?" He said it gruffly, like it was going to be such an inconvenience for him to walk the extra few blocks after patrolling. But Xander wasn't fooled. Spike had been oddly moved when he and Willow had sought him out the afternoon after the funeral, and asked him to step in while they got the robot repaired, and the rest of them recovered enough to go out on slayage duty themselves.

And Xander had gone out patrolling with him a couple of nights since then. He knew how the violence energized the vampire, how he was able to pour out all his rage and grief on the unlucky demons who crossed their path. And afterwards, drinking in Willy's Place and telling loud, outrageous lies for the benefit of the bar's patrons, about how the Slayer had asked him, as a Personal Favor, to watch the streets of Sunnydale while she was out of town on "family business," Xander had seen the desperation in his eyes. That maybe if he told the same lie often enough, it might become true, and Buffy would be back any night now, ready to kick some ass, just like old times.

Xander sank down on the step next to Spike and answered his question. "Yep. If it's Giles you want to see, you'd kinda have to go where he is." He paused, then added more seriously, "Might be good if someone kept an eye on him, too."

Spike snorted. "I'm not no damn babysittin' service," he growled. Then he continued, more quietly, "You ask me, Red needs to back off; give a fellow some space." Xander's eyes flashed up to meet his, irritated again, but Spike only gave him an impish grin, and Xander knew the vampire might not keep an eye on the Watcher because they had asked him to, but that he would do it for whatever reasons amused him at the time. It was enough.

They sat in silence watching the fireflies in the yard, until Anya called shrilly for Xander from inside the house. Spike grinned as they both rose. "Want to come patrollin' tonight, Mate?" he asked, grinning a little more at the tempted look in the young man's eyes.

Xander smiled ruefully. "Nah. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow." He took a deep, steadying breath and squared his shoulders, before calling back, "Be right there, Honey." He went back into the house, avoiding the open mockery in the vampire's eyes.

Spike stood there a moment more, then shrugged and sauntered off, searching through his pockets for another cigarette, and scanning the darkened sidewalks for something he could kill.

* * *

Rupert Giles approached his own door later that night with a feeling of relief. Until he saw that it was standing slightly ajar, light from his kitchen spilling out around it. He heard his microwave beeping, and peered around the door to see a familiar, if not beloved, face turning from removing a mug of something he did not want to think about from the appliance. "Spike," he sighed in weary exasperation. 

Spike blew into his mug and took a careful sip. "Thought you'd be back sooner, Rupert," the vampire greeted him mildly. "Trouble getting away?"

Actually, there had been. Willow had called a few minutes before he left, with a timing he still found slightly uncanny, and their conversation had been strained. But Giles had held his ground, and the fact that he had only to contend with Willow's voice, and neither her eyes nor her resolve face, had made it easier for him to tell her firmly that he was on his way home and would see her when she returned. He had also spoken briefly to Wesley and Cordelia, assured them both he was fine, and let Wesley know to expect some of their old colleagues from the Council in the coming days.

But Giles did not share any of this with Spike. Not that he needed to. It frequently annoyed him, how easily the vampire read–and manipulated-- them all. He shut the door behind him, tossed his bag into the corner under his coat rack, then flicked on the light over his desk and began sorting through his mail. Spike watched him in silence for a few moments, then ventured, "Um… Rupert? Cup of tea?"

Giles tossed the mail back on his desk and turned around abruptly to fix a furious glare on the vampire. "Did Willow put you up to this?"

If Spike had any redeeming quality at all, it was that, when confronted unexpectedly, his long practice at lying didn't hide that smallest flicker of truth in his eyes. But in this case, there was no need. The vampire met his gaze calmly and replied, "I'm sure she will, when she gets back. And by then, I'll probably tell her to bugger off. I got better things to do with my nights." He took another nonchalant sip from his steaming mug, all the while maintaining defiant eye contact with the Watcher.

They stood a moment more, each taking the measure of the other with his eyes. Giles turned away first, sighing and loosening his tie. "Anything of interest on your patrol tonight?" he asked over his shoulder. He removed the tie and draped it over the back of a chair, then leaned against the chair a little too heavily.

Spike noted the weakness without surprise or comment. "Nothin' that won't keep 'til morning. Get some rest, Mate."

Giles nodded, gathering his strength before pushing off from the chair and making his way to the stairs. "Well, then. I trust you can let yourself out?"

Spike came out of the kitchen to lean against the door jamb into the living area. "I–uh–I've been sleeping on your couch. While you've been away." Giles paused halfway to the landing and turned to glare at the vampire, who simply gazed back, unrepentant. Shrugging, he continued, "Broken bones ache in the damp and cold, and my crypt's both. Few more days and I'll be gone, I promise."

They both knew Giles was in no condition to throw him out. And considering some of the things Spike had been finding on his patrols over the past week, perhaps he didn't want to. Giles gave a tired nod and continued up the stairs. As he reached the top, though, he paused again.

"Spike." The voice drifting down from the darkness above was so quiet, only Spike's demon-heightened senses could have caught it. "The children don't need to know about my dreams."

Spike froze in the act of unfolding a blanket on the couch. He heard the footsteps continue up and across the loft, and the sound of Giles undressing and then collapsing heavily into his bed. Spike sat down on the couch and drained the blood from the mug in his hand, but he no longer tasted it.

He'd forgotten, how bad the dreams used to be. Back when he had been Giles' erstwhile flatmate, right after that sodding chip had been shoved into his brain. At the time, he had taken a perverse pleasure in the moans, the words spoken in the Watcher's sleep. He had deduced that they mostly came from experiences at the hands of Angelus and of his own dark beauty, Drusilla. But he knew, too, that many of the dreams revolved around his Slayer, and his fear that he would fail her, or lose her. And now that the nightmare had come true, for both of them, he felt a strange kinship with his countryman. He hated it, but there it was.

They'd never spoken of it, and strangely, Spike had never exploited that particular weakness in his dealings with the Watcher. There were so many others that had been easier, more amusing at the time, and much less likely to get him staked. Now, though, Spike was oddly touched that Rupert would trust-- if that was even the right word-- him enough to speak of his dreams aloud. As he pulled the blanket up over him he froze, as it occurred to him that he would be trusting the Watcher with his own dreams, tonight, as well, if he stayed.

"Bugger that," he growled under his breath as he sat up again. Another hour or two of patrol, and perhaps a nap on the Summers' porch swing, would be preferable to taking that chance. Besides, he would be there for Glinda and the Nibblet, when their own nightmares woke them. His demon and the humanity he carried only as memories joined in mocking his cowardice, but he pulled his black duster back on and quietly let himself out. He didn't return until nearly dawn. And he didn't sleep until he had given Giles his report and watched him close the front door behind him, on his way out to the shop for the day.

* * *

Willow returned late the next afternoon. She said nothing when Giles did not appear for dinner, but when it was over and Dawn was well on her way to bed, she had turned her eyes to Tara's, only to be stopped by a gentle touch on her cheek, a sad smile, and a simple word: "Go." Tara knew, perhaps better than her beloved, how much Willow and Giles needed to mend the growing rift between them. 

Willow stood outside his door for a long while. When she finally worked up her courage, Giles opened it at her knock and gazed quietly down on her. After an awkward silence, Willow gave her goofy, somewhat anxious grin. "Um, can I…?" She motioned toward the doorway.

Giles blinked, then colored slightly. "Oh, …." He moved aside to let her enter. "Um… I just put the kettle on. Would you care for some tea?" Without waiting for the answer, he turned to busy himself in the kitchen, and Willow noted as she leaned on the counter, that his movements were more fluid, less hampered by the injuries and over-exertions of the past month. "How was Angel?" he continued with distant courtesy, as he emerged from the kitchen carrying the laden tea tray and setting it on the coffee table. Willow followed and caught his hand as he straightened and turned to her. His startled gaze met hers.

"I'm not here to talk about Angel, Giles."

He looked at her in astonishment, but didn't reply, and after a moment he found a spot on the floor on which to fix his embarrassed gaze. Willow sighed, but she wasn't surprised that he was not making this easy. After another deep breath to gather her thoughts, she decided to start by answering his question after all.

"He hurts. Like we all do." She let him disengage his hand from hers to begin cleaning his immaculate glasses, still refusing to look directly at her. She continued, "I came to say I'm sorry, Giles." He did look up at that, but before he could reply or protest with his too-British gallantry, she plunged ahead. "No, I shouldn't have pushed you so hard about staying. I just…." She faltered. " I remember what you were like… that summer, after…."

Willow didn't need to tell him which summer. She could see in his eyes, Giles remembered as well as she, that other summer when Buffy had disappeared without a word, none of them knowing where she was, or whether she was alive or dead. Sadly, this time, they were painfully aware of both.

"I needed you not to go away again. We all need you, Giles. I should have given you more space, to grieve in your own way. But I'm so scared sometimes. Everyone's looking to me for answers, and…." Tears began to leak from her eyes then, and she felt strong arms around her, hugging her with all the love and acceptance her own father had never given her.

"I'm sorry, too, Willow," he said quietly, as her sobs eased and he pulled back to look into her eyes. "I can't lie to you. I don't know how long I can continue to stay here, after… everything. But I promise you, I won't leave here immediately. And not until I'm sure you will all be safe, and able to carry on." He smiled slightly as he brushed a tear from her pale cheek. "And you will be. You are all so terribly strong, resilient, brave. I am so proud of all of you. You don't need an old man like me to watch over you."

"Maybe not," Willow said softly. "But we do need our friend."

Giles pulled her back into his embrace. "I shall always be that," he replied.

Willow chuckled soggily. "So, you coming to dinner tomorrow night? It's Tara's turn to cook."

Giles' warm answering chuckle rumbled against her cheek as she rested it against his chest. Tara was the only one of them, besides Giles himself, who could cook even passably. "Count on it," he said, placing a kiss on top of her head before releasing her.

"Now, where's that tea?" Willow grinned up at him, wiping at her eyes and taking his proffered handkerchief gratefully. "There's these funny yellow demons camped out in the woods behind the elementary school, and I can't figure out what they are. Should we be looking in the Demon Compendium or …." They continued for some time in companionable research mode, Giles suggesting possible sources she might check to identify some of the more interesting things Spike had been seeing on his nightly rounds. Finally, hesitantly, Willow broached the other subject that had been troubling her.

"Giles," she began. He looked up, pausing in the act of reaching for another book to cross check a fact. Willow went on, "I know you want to, you know, get away from everything, but…. I think you're wrong. We're going to be trying to take on the Hellmouth–by ourselves, with no superpowers or anything. The more I think about it, the more I wonder how we're going to be able to do that–without you. I think we need a Watcher, for Us." Her elfin face was troubled, and Giles sighed, searching for words that would help her understand.

"Willow, what you must have faith in is the fact that while each of you alone may be merely human…."

"Except, you know, Spike," Willow corrected. He blinked at the interruption, then continued with the stutter she had once found so adorable.

"Y-Yes, well, of course. The point is, Together you are all quite resourceful and capable enough to handle anything that may arise. And I…." He sighed. "I'm not, you see. I fear my presence would make you weaker in the long run, not stronger."

"Giles, that's not…" Willow began, but Giles shook his head, cutting off her protest gently.

"Willow, other than providing a new location for our research parties this year, my contributions to the team have been fairly minimal. The Council only turned over its information after Buffy called their bluff–a position she should never have been forced into in the first place. The only thing I did there was let my bloody green card act as hostage while they toyed with her. And," he continued, warming to his subject with a bitterness Willow had never seen in him before, "let us not forget that I sold Glory the spell ingredients that would have allowed her to locate Dawn, a fiasco only prevented by Buffy's quick intuition and fighting skills."

Willow moistened her suddenly dry lips. "But, you, you know, trained her and all…."

Giles' eyes flashed as he shot back, "I gave her nothing she didn't already posses from birth. Even if she did develop those gifts a little more from our training together, the fact remains that, ultimately, it wasn't enough." Giles looked down at his hands, unable to bear the compassion in his young friend's eyes. Willow struggled to find something to say, but nothing came.

Finally, Giles cleared his throat and spoke. "Willow," he said bleakly, "I failed her. And if I stayed, I would eventually fail you all. I… I don't believe I could bear that."

Willow absorbed his words quietly. Finally she said, "So, what are ya gonna do?"

Giles glanced down at his watch and gave a shaky chuckle. "Just now, probably go to bed," he replied, standing up and stretching a bit as he did so. "As to the other," he continued, "I'll be going back to England, as soon as I get my affairs in order here. It will be terribly difficult, of course, but," he nodded slowly, as if trying to convince himself, "I honestly believe it will be for the best."


	5. Growing Up

Summer

Part 5/9 - Growing Up

DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.

A/N: Thanks as always for the reviews, and sorry to those who are looking for more "In Loco Parentis." I'm hoping to have another bit of that up soon, but in the meantime, this one is long finished, so there's no reason to delay posting it. As I've said, this was my first fanfic, and it's kind of cool for me now to see how much of it holds up well, and to reflect on how much better I am these days at seeing and avoiding wild point of view shifts and the like.

* * *

A few days later, Xander looked up in irritation as Dawn returned to the Summers living room from checking the back door for at least the fifth time since dusk. She was in a truly foul mood, and making her displeasure with them all as evident as possible. He sighed and turned to a new, but equally boring page in the dusty tome on his lap and said, "For Pete's sake, Dawn, give it a rest, already. He'll be here." _He _being Spike, of course. The only one of them she was_ Not_ mad at, at the moment. 

Xander didn't know how to feel about having lost his place in Dawn's heart, as crush or big brother, much less about having lost to… that creature. Nor did he get how she could feel anything positive for Spike at all. I mean, yes, very impressive, getting himself thrown off a tower and all, but Spike himself would be the first to admit that act had gotten Dawn's sister killed. Xander shook his head in disgust–at the blindness of Summers women, at himself for so petty a thought. Even if it happened to be true.

Dawn just rolled her eyes. "If you guys would let me do anything useful, like _researching_, maybe I wouldn't be such a distraction to you…."

Giles cleared his throat and looked over the top of his glasses at her. "No, then you would be wanting an explanation of some of the pictures–or worse, you'd be explaining them to _me_." Ignoring Xander's snicker, Giles continued, more gently, even as he turned his eyes back to the volume in his lap. "How's that History essay of yours coming?" They had gotten her assignments, and the most formidable seemed to be a term paper in her least favorite of subjects. Dawn grinned wickedly in response.

"Just waiting for you to have time to proof it," she replied sweetly. She didn't add that she had chosen a topic sure to give her an interesting time seeing just how many shades of embarrassed red and purple Giles' face was capable of turning. She couldn't wait to watch him read it. _Too young for research, indeed_.

Willow and Tara looked up from their books, and Dawn's wicked smile shifted to innocent and angelic in a single beat. Giles missed it as he glanced up a second too late. "Ah. Well, that's good," he replied absently, as something on the page before him attracted his attention again. The two witches traded a wry glance and turned back to their own books without a word.

* * *

Dawn wandered restlessly back towards the kitchen, pausing until Anya's back was turned, then slipping past her to the relative safety of the back porch before the former vengeance demon could press her into domestic service, and Dawn gave her a Reason to take up her former trade again. She was _so_ not putting up with any crap from these people tonight. 

Outside, the night was clear and cool. Dawn sat down on the top step and drew her knees toward her chest. Resting her chin on her knees, she scowled.

"Well, aren't you a sight," a familiar voice drawled. Spike stepped out of the shadows, taking a last drag on his cigarette before tossing it aside and striding across the lawn towards the girl. "Didn't anyone ever tell you, be careful, or your face might freeze like that?"

She turned a more baleful eye on him. "I am _not_ a child! Why does everyone keep treating me like one?"

Spike stopped and raised both hands in mock truce. "Whoa, Nibblet. What's got your knickers in such a twist tonight, then?"

She glared back towards the house for a moment, then burst out, "They want to have a Scooby meeting tomorrow night at the shop, and they want me to stay here–with a Babysitter! I'm almost fifteen years old! And I'm not any mystical whatchamajigger anymore, and…." She was crying now, in rage and frustration and even she knew, deep down, that her reaction was way out of proportion to the slights she had suffered. Though those were pretty serious, as far as she was concerned. And, not making such a good case for not being a baby, she thought ruefully, as the tears dripped through her fingers.

Spike sat down beside her and pulled her into his cold arms, and the smell of smoke and leather calmed her a little. After she had cried herself mostly out, Spike said in her ear, "I've got a wicked idea."

Tear stained eyes pulled back to look into his face. Spike always had wicked ideas, but he seldom shared them with her.

"What do you reckon would piss those wankers off more–if I came by and scared some other poor sitter bird half to death, so that nobody would ever agree to sit with you again, or if I offered to keep you company myself?"

Dawn grinned a little, in spite of herself. "You'd do that for me?"

"In a heartbeat. If I had one, that is."

"But don't you have to be at this super special Scooby meeting? It's not like You're too young for it. No offense."

Spike snorted. "In case you haven't noticed, 'Bit, I'm not exactly a member of their little Scooby Gang. And I don't want to be. Bugger the lot of them." His sardonic grin faded a little, and he said, more quietly, "You're the only one I ever promised anyone I'd look after." His eyes grew sad for a moment, but then he seemed to recollect where he was, and he grinned again. "Besides, I haven't seen old Rupert good and snarked off in days. He'll get all soft if I'm not around to keep his blood pressure up."

Dawn gave a conspiratorial grin. "They haven't figured out who to get yet. Maybe you could volunteer. We could watch movies. And order pizza."

Spike nodded, seeming to grow in enthusiasm for the idea. "And some of those spicy buffalo wings?" he added hopefully.

Dawn began to giggle. "And Giles and Xander really will flip out."

Spike slapped her knee. "Tell you what, you've talked me into it. I'll just go in and tell them right now."

Actually, the whole thing had been his idea. More or less. When Tara had told him about the Scooby meeting and their intention to find Dawn an elsewhere to be, Spike had suggested, with unusual insight, that Dawn was feeling a little helpless, and he knew just the way to perk her up again. Though Tara hadn't liked the deceptions involved, she had agreed to let him handle it in his own way, and not to tell anyone else about their conversation.

It was a win-win situation, as far as he was concerned. Being able to manipulate and generally jerk around several different groups of people at once–he hadn't had this much fun since that fiasco with Adam. And when Dawn did, of course, catch on to what he'd done a couple of weeks later, he just gave her a proud grin and said approvingly, "Knew you'd figure it out." She'd tried to scold him, but she was only half serious, and he'd only raised an eyebrow and reminded her, "Hey. Evil undead vampire here." Then he'd grinned more broadly and said, "Besides, did you see the Whelp's face?"

At the moment, Spike was sauntering into the living room. Dawn followed, scarcely able to contain her glee. "Think I can help you with your little problem, Rupert," he announced.

Giles glanced up from his book, with his most proper British 'I beg your pardon' expression on his face. "My p-problem?" he repeated, a bit baffled.

Spike grinned. "Your Scooby meeting?" he prompted with raised eyebrows. "Someone to watch Dawn?" he added, as if to someone not quite bright.

Giles looked both offended at the tone and distinctly uncomfortable. But he asked anyway, "You know a babysi–I mean" he amended, catching the murderous expression on the teenager's face, "someone who could stay here with Dawn?"

"Nah. For the right price, I'll do it myself."

"Now wait just a damned minute," Xander began loudly. It was one thing for him to be alone with Spike in a cemetery patolling. It was another to leave Dawn alone with the bastard. Willow and Tara jumped into the breach with their words of reason and reconciliation. Giles stayed very still and fixed the vampire with a penetrating glare.

Though he had not been so observant of late, Giles was well aware, now, that he was being played. But behind the vampire's arrogantly mocking grin, Giles saw the guilt, the haunted expression of one determined never to repeat some act or omission. Through the cacophony around them, Giles said quietly, dangerously, "If anything happens to her, I'll stake you myself."

Spike's eyes didn't flinch from his. "I'll hand you the stake," he agreed, just as quietly. "If there's enough left of me to dust." But as a silent understanding passed between them, they both knew there wouldn't be.

Giles nodded imperceptibly to any but the vampire. "Done," he said simply. And so the matter was settled.

* * *

The gang assembled at the Magic Box after supper the following night. That hadn't all been there together since the night they had buried Buffy, and on that night, most of them had stayed in the training room, avoiding the storefront itself. The last time they had all been gathered around the research table had been two nights before that. Willow glanced around, noticing how each one of them was in pretty much the same spot they'd been that night. 

Xander broke the silence before it grew any more oppressive. Clapping his hands and rubbing them together, he pasted on a grin and said, "Well Giles, we're all here. Whatcha got for us?"

Giles shook his head. "I actually did not call this meeting." He inclined his head toward Willow and gave her an encouraging smile. She returned it, trying to quell some of the butterflies in her stomach, and cleared her throat.

"I, uh, I wanted to let you know how the repair work is coming…." Willow took in the variety of uncomfortable expressions which greeted this announcement, but carried on. "It's going to be a while before the 'bot is going to be walking, much less patrolling, so…."

"But that's okay, isn't it?" Anya spoke up. "After all, we've got Spike taking care of things for now, don't we?"

"Not just Spike," muttered Xander darkly. Anya patted his hand as if placating a small child, but something about Willow made her keep her own eyes on the witch. Willow nodded.

"Yeah, and the Council is sending some help too," Willow continued, gesturing towards Giles, who was studying his folded hands and refusing to meet anyone's sympathetic gaze. Willow continued, "But we don't want them staying long. It might make people, uh, demons, wondering things we don't want them wondering about."

"Indeed," Giles agreed, without looking up. "We've never needed Council operatives to patrol during the summer before, even when Buffy…" he faltered a bit, but recovered. "Even when Buffy was away."

Willow nodded again. "We need to make it look like we're all pitching in, just like we normally do. But we also need to be a little smarter and more organized about it than we've been in the past."

"How much more organized can you get than radios and code names?" Xander quipped, the attempt at levity painfully forced.

Willow continued, ignoring the interruption, "We're all–we're still recovering. From everything. But we've also just come out of a fight where we–all of us–did a lot more than we ever thought we could. All the adrenaline, and all that, um…."

Xander cut to the chase. "You think we might get sloppy," he finished for her flatly.

Willow shook her head. "I think we need a Watcher for Us." Giles looked up, startled. There was both hurt and anger in his eyes as he looked at Willow–they'd already had this conversation, and he'd already made his feelings on the matter quite clear.

"Willow," he began in a soft, dangerous voice. "We've been over this…."

Willow used the puppy dog eyes and pout that had always gotten her her way in the past, with just about everyone, and said, "Giles, we need you."

Giles shook his head, wondering how he had never noticed before how manipulative Willow could be. "Do you have any idea what you're asking?" His voice grew in intensity but not volume as he went on. "I've agreed to stay and help you program your damned robot. But I will not stay one second beyond that. You're all bloody well old enough to look after yourselves. If you need simple physical training, I suggest you ask Spike, as I'm sure he would be more than willing to …."

Giles ran a tired hand under his glasses and across his closed eyes and stopped himself before he unleashed the anger bottled up inside him. In an even quieter voice, he said, "I have given you my reasons why I cannot be your Watcher. I'm sorry you do not respect them, or me." Breathing hard, he rose, shaking his head. "I can't–I can't do this right now." He began striding toward the back door of the shop. Over his shoulder he said, "Anya, I trust you can lock up?" He disappeared through the door without waiting for a reply; a few seconds later they heard the back door into the alley slam closed.

There was a stunned silence. "Uh, Way to go, Will," Xander said, finally.

Tara came over and took her girlfriend's hand, patted it comfortingly. "He's just tired, and in pain. He didn't mean it."

Willow looked up at her, eyes red with tears. "Yes, he did. We talked about it a couple of days ago." She drew a shuddering breath, blew it out, and released Tara's hand, turning to face them all again. "I think he'll calm down in a day or so. He knows I'm right. But right now, maybe it's better if he's gone. We have something else to worry about."

They all looked at her as if she'd grown an extra head. Anya asked tentatively, "You mean, something other than our Watcher and my boss telling us all to go to hell and walking out on us?"

Willow nodded solemnly. "I've been doing some reading up on dimensional portals. It's not good."

"Kinda got that, Will," Xander said slowly. "We were all there for the live demonstration."

Anya's eyes had narrowed. "You read the Book of Sobek, didn't you?" she accused. "The one Giles told you to '_stay out of on peril of my everlasting displeasure_'?

Willow flushed, but continued, "It corroborated what my other sources said–that when someone dies in the doorway of a dimensional portal, the soul can get trapped in a kind of limbo between dimensions, or in one of the dimensions on either side."

Tara gasped. "You think that happened to Buffy?"

Willow sighed, "We don't really know what happened. But I think we need to find out."

Anya said quietly, "I recognized some of the dimensions that portal was opening on. Willow's right–they're not good places."

Willow added, "And if what I've been reading is right, Buffy could be in any one of them."

"Then we have to help her," Xander said, rising to pace the floor as if hyperactive nervous energy alone could accomplish the task.

Willow nodded. "I think so, too. But we need to know more. More about dimensions and portals, and more about ways we could help her from here. And obviously," she gestured towards the door to the back room where they had last seen Giles, "not everyone is going to be up to dealing with what we might find. So…" she trailed off meaningfully.

"Keep it a secret," Xander finished for her, his eyes wide. "You want us to keep it a secret–from Giles?" He sat back down heavily, stunned.

"And Spike, and Dawn." Willow looked at each of them in turn, her expression more serious than they had ever seen it. "They all need time to heal, and to focus on what is now, not what might be. We might find out Buffy's somewhere terrible, but that there's nothing we can do." She paused, giving them time to absorb her words. "Or," she continued, "we might find a way to get her out, or even bring her back. We don't want to get anybody's hopes up, and then have it not work. It would be too … cruel."

"But not too cruel, to do it to ourselves?" Xander made no effort to hide the tears glistening in his eyes.

Willow took his face in her hands and looked deep into his eyes. "We're her friends. Whatever it takes, whatever we have to suffer, we have to try. To be sure she's ok, or to help her if she's not." Willow paused, then added in a whisper, "She'd do it for us."

Xander pulled himself together and nodded. "She did do it for us," he agreed. But his resolution faltered a bit as he remembered, "But… not tell Giles?"

Willow shook her head emphatically. "No. You saw him tonight. He can't take it. Not now. We have to do this for him, too. He's right. We are old enough to take care of ourselves."

Xander nodded again, more resolutely. "Being a grown up really sucks sometimes, doesn't it?" He sighed heavily. "Ok. Where do we start?"


	6. Making Sense

Summer

Part 6/9 - Making Sense

DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.

_A/N: And with this installment, we finally start to get to something like a story. And a lot of things I'm proud of, including a theory about Spike that I have not seen elsewhere in fanfic. If you've been reading this, thanks—doubly so if you've also been reviewing._

* * *

They fell into a routine as the weeks went on. Giles made it over to the Summers house for dinner most nights, and afterwards helped Willow by answering questions on Watcher/ Slayer lore or fighting techniques. But his conversation with her remained much more formal and distant than it had ever been before. He also began delegating more and more of Dawn's tutoring to Tara, who had not only the patience and calm wisdom needed for the task, but genuine gifts as a teacher which he recognized as clearly superior to his own. He offered input when asked, but frequently merely approved her own ideas and lesson plans.

But as the weeks passed he spent less and less time there, and more in shop. All day, of course, helping Anya, and beginning the daunting task of catching up the bookkeeping that had fallen by the wayside over the past months, and then of setting things in order for his announced departure. But also most evenings after supper with his young friends, pleading tiredness, or old age, or anything else that would let him get away, he would return to the silent shop.

It was silent largely because, at night, the shop was the one place no one, himself included, wished to be. The memories resonated more painfully in the night air and dim light. At his home, Willow would drop by rather frequently, ostensibly to ask a question or borrow a book, and then stay to chat or read with him or scan more volumes into their ever growing database until he retired to his bed. Much as she had done these many summers past. But the undercurrent of concern, of keeping an eye on him, was stifling at times, if well meant. And the private task he had set for himself required, well, just that. Privacy. So he endured the ghosts and memories around him, and thought it fitting, in a way, that he should be here to work on his final gift to his Slayer.

He still recalled with absolute clarity the night they had sat here together, thumbing through volume after volume of Watcher diaries, looking for some common denominator to explain why the final battles of Slayers past had ended thus, searching for any clues that could help Buffy avoid their fates. She had assumed that the Watchers' strange reticence had been a result of some misplaced sense of decorum, until he had quietly corrected her. He'd had no inkling then, how right he'd been, to guess that the subject had been too painful for them. But he had resolved that night, that when the time came, he would make sure every detail of his own Slayer's final battle would be recorded for posterity. Not to help some future Slayer. How likely would it be that another would have to face a hell god? No, he was doing it for only one reason: to honor his own.

And so it was that Spike found him alone in his shop, after the nightly patrol. He reported to Willow most nights now, as she had become the de facto leader of their pathetic little group. Giles wanted nothing more to do with that role, deferring to Willow, or Xander, or even the vampire himself at every opportunity. The children couldn't see what he was doing, but Spike saw everything. He listened to them yammer on, worrying about the Watcher, when they came out of their own self absorption long enough to even notice. But he saw no need to enlighten any of them. Giles was detaching himself, trying to make his peace and go, though Spike wasn't yet sure whether that journey was simply back to the mother country, or somewhere a little more permanent. Didn't matter, really. Spike was feeling a growing respect and even fondness for the man, and he reckoned if anyone had earned a bit of peace, Giles had.

Spike sauntered up into the dim shopfront from the basement door, quietly as always, but not troubling to hide his presence, either. The Watcher glanced up, regarded him for a moment with a weary eye, then turned back to his books without a word. Spike, used to such a reception by now, helped himself to a clean glass from the bottom shelf of the tea table and reached for the half empty bottle of Scotch at Giles' elbow. Giles glared at him again as the vampire splashed a generous amount into the glass and tossed back half of it in a single gulp.

"I really must ask Willow to see what she can do about putting a de-invite spell on a public building," Giles sighed drily, but without rancor. Just the same weary, grey sadness that punctuated his every move these days. Spike raised the glass in mock salute and sank into the chair next to his erstwhile countryman. Giles caught the considering, sidewise look, and then the decision as Spike refrained from pulling any of the books towards him, choosing instead to lean back in his chair and take another sip from his glass. Though Giles had poured himself a similar drink hours ago, he had yet to taste any of it, and he was sure Spike's demon heightened senses were aware of the fact.

Spike regarded him through narrowed eyes for a time, while the Watcher did his best to ignore his unwelcome visitor. At last, Giles glanced up and sighed, "Why are you still here, Spike?"

Spike affected surprise at the question. "Still? I been patrollin' since dusk. A fellow might ask you that question. If he cared."

When Giles made no further reply, Spike tried again. Gesturing toward the laden table with his glass, "Uh--special project?" he guessed quietly, knowing as well as anyone that there were no big bads clamoring for the Watcher's attention in Sunnydale just now. The demonic population was only beginning to trickle back after the showdown with Glory, and the Watcher chaps had helped him take out the most troublesome of the refugees from the dimensional rifts and were already on their way back to England, to everyone's immense relief. No sense of humor, for one thing, the wankers.

Giles again made no reply. Spike took another sip and considered the books on the table. He saw that while many books lay open on the table, Giles was not consulting any of them. He had only one book in his hand–his own Watcher's Journal, which Spike recognized by the cramped, miniscule, but absolutely legible writing. Another clue there was the pen in his hand. Spike suddenly realized Giles was not researching, but composing. A cold horror swept through him, as it dawned on him what Giles was probably up to, and he rose, wanting in that moment to be anywhere else, several hell dimensions included. He was halfway out of his chair when Giles' quiet voice froze him where he stood.

"She… she said… you told her… things. About the other Slayers."

The memory of that night welled painfully in Spike's cold breast. At first a game, flirting and bragging. Then more serious, as he'd realized how close she had come, and how close she still was, to giving in to that wish–to finally know what death was like, to lay down her arms and rest. "To cease upon the midnight with no pain," he heard himself murmur, sinking back down into his chair.

Giles cocked an eyebrow at the vampire in surprise. "Keats?" he said, not at all a question of identification, but of surprise that Spike would be quoting him, and doing it now.

Spike shot an irritated glance at the Watcher, but was inwardly relieved to have something besides his memory of that night's humiliations to focus on. "Hey," he shot back. "Just because I was a godawful poet myself, don't mean I didn't appreciate the real ones."

Giles closed his diary and leaned back in his chair, finally taking a sip from his own glass. "Did you first read him before or after you were turned?" he asked conversationally, as if he, too, welcomed the break.

"Oh, Please," Spike huffed. "What, you think the Great Pouf introduced Me to Keats' poetry? Like the prat could even read before he was turned."

Giles suppressed a slight chuckle. "I imagine the, um, broodiness of Keats might have appealed to him."

Spike snorted rudely, but then turned somber again. "I suppose you could say, Keats explains why I let myself get turned in the first place," he found himself admitting quietly.

Giles suddenly felt very cold, as another line came to him. "La Belle Dame sans Merci/ Hath thee in thrall," he breathed, and Spike nodded, his eyes very far away. Then he recollected himself and chuckled mirthlessly.

"Still does," he rasped, as close to tears as Giles had ever seen him, save once, and Giles somehow knew the vampire was not thinking of Drusilla now. Spike rose abruptly and turned away to begin rooting through the weapons chest in the corner.

"Uh, look," he said after a moment, in a stronger voice, "I found a nest of Vauxalla demons down the way–thought I'd take out mum and dad quick-like now, and get the young ones when they come slinkin' home after curfew." He selected an axe with runic figures carved into the head and held it up. "Mind if I borrow this?"

Giles blinked. "Oh, um, no, not at all," he replied, rising from his own chair and stretching himself stiffly. "In fact, give me five minutes and I'll join you." Spike eyed the Watcher doubtfully, taking in the bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothes, the tie loosened unevenly around his neck, but shrugged.

"Suit yourself, Mate."

In more like ten minutes, Giles rejoined the vampire, dressed in faded blue jeans and a grey sweatshirt. He had apparently splashed some water on his face and looked a good deal better for it. He carried a broadsword from the weapons stash in the back room, and he seemed somehow younger and more energetic than Spike could recall ever seeing him. "Right, then," the Watcher said. "Let's go."

Two hours later, the vampire had learned a new respect for the mild mannered shopkeeper. Both of them were covered in a dark, sickly greenish demon ichor. They were hunkered down behind a dumpster awaiting the return of the last of the young ones. The older, more dangerous members of the family had already been dispatched, and they felt reasonably safe about letting the last one come to them, it being at the stage in its life cycle where it only posed a threat to squirrels and other small rodents.

"Glad I left my jacket back at the shop," Spike remarked, using the tail of his shirt to mop the worst of the muck off his face.

Giles grimaced. "Are you sure there was another one?" he asked, a little more peevishly than he intended. He ached all over, and while this demon blood was not caustic, its stench was both unique and pungent, and Giles was envying the vampire his ability to go without breathing. He was pleased to notice that he hadn't reopened any of his wounds, though. He was really healing remarkably well. He frowned a moment, trying to pin down what was troubling about that, but found himself too tired.

Spike chuckled. "Yes, Rupert, I'm sure. But you needn't stay–it's pretty small. Dawn could probably take it…" he caught the Watcher's stern glare and amended quickly, "but, of course, we'd never let her anywhere near something like this." Mischief glinting in his eyes, the vampire continued, "Speakin' of the Niblet, how's her schoolwork comin'?"

Giles rewarded him with a dark glare. "I take it you've seen her history essay."

"Oh, yeah," Spike chuckled proudly. "And before you ask, I had nothin' to do with it. 'Cept, of course, I might have suggested some spelling corrections…." His grin grew wider as he caught Giles' shudder, but he refrained from adding any more. For a moment. Then, "I coulda given her some more background information, but I kinda liked it as it was." His speech took on the pretentious tones of an academic as he added, "Her writing has such a refreshing innocence about it…"

'Innocence' was not a word that sprang to Giles' mind when he thought of the essay in question. But he wasn't sure whether to be relieved or troubled that Spike had added no firsthand knowledge to Dawn's research. He was spared the choice of how to respond by the sound of the last demon lumbering into the alley.

Spike gave the exhausted Watcher a quick appraising look and began to rise. "I'll get this one, Rupert. You look right knackered…." But Giles was already on his feet and striding out to confront the beast head on, not even waiting for it to pass their hiding spot so they could ambush it from behind. Shaking his head, Spike followed Giles out into harm's way.

A few violence filled minutes later, they stood over the body of the demon, Giles panting hard. Spike shot an irritated glance at his companion. "You know, Rupert," he said, as he began cleaning the gore off his weapon with his t-shirt, "if you go and bloody off yourself, she'll never forgive you for it." Giles' head snapped up, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"What would you know about it?" he spat out.

Spike shrugged. "More than you think. I also know that Dante didn't get it all wrong in that poem of his. Suicides don't go the same place as heroes." Giles' face took on a strange expression, one that Spike couldn't read. He seemed to slump in on himself, defeated.

"Neither do murderers," came the reply, so low that Spike wasn't sure he'd heard it. He was distracted from formulating an answer by a sound at their feet, and a slight twitch from the fallen demon. Without thinking, Spike shoved Giles aside as the creature gave a sudden huff of air. Spike looked down to see two long, thorny spines sticking out of his abdomen. He dropped to his knees and heard his weapon clatter from suddenly nerveless hands. He was dimly aware of Giles hacking the body apart, then of a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" The voice sounded very far away. The question struck him as rather funny, but his body's reaction to laughter was excruciating. He doubled over in pain as the voice said, "Here, lean on me."

The vampire tried to pull the spines out, but his hands were too weak and slippery to get a proper grasp. He heard himself gasp out, "Giles, what…?"

The calm voice in his ear replied, "It would appear you've been poisoned by a Verrush demon. Very similar to the Vauxalla, and sometimes they nest together; means they're often confused with one another. It's a magical poison–disrupts the connections between spirit and flesh. Unfortunately for you, it doesn't require a working circulatory system to spread."

Spike felt the man pause and shift his hold on him slightly, to bear a bit more of the weight Spike was increasingly not able to help with. Giles continued more quietly, "If you hadn't pushed me at the last moment, it might well have proved fatal for me." Even given their words of moments ago, Spike couldn't tell whether Giles sounded thankful or sorry about that. He heard a door open and found himself being lowered to a mat on a stone floor.

"Hang on, I've got a first aid kit in here somewhere. Try not to move." Spike repressed the urge to chuckle at that unnecessary admonishment. He heard the light switch flick, but his vision was hazy and darkening. He sensed a presence return to his side and heard the metal case click open, and someone digging through rustling bandages and rolls of tape. Then….

"This may hurt a little," warned the voice, not sounding the least bit regretful. Spike felt an intense pain in his stomach as one of the spines was yanked free. The second one was more deeply embedded, and Spike found himself praying fervently for death, or well, something, before it came loose. He felt a liquid being poured into the wounds–cold at first, then so white hot he thought for a moment it was holy water, before the acrid tang of rubbing alcohol hit his nostrils with his involuntary gasp of pain.

A few minutes later, Giles finished taping a pressure bandage over the wounds, and Spike's vision began to clear. "How do you feel?" Giles asked quietly, almost gently.

"Like someone's had my bloody guts for garters," Spike replied, in a raspy whisper. He struggled to sit up and instantly regretted it. Quite aside from the pain and dizziness, he felt very different, very unlike himself. He began to shake uncontrollably. "Giles," he breathed. "What's wrong with me?"

Giles looked up from wiping off his hands. "Until the poison works its way out of your body, I expect you may be feeling a bit odd. The effects should be temporary…."

"No." The fear in Spike's voice was palpable now. "Before this. What's been wrong with me?" He moistened his lips and pulled himself together. "She'll never know, or care, yet here I bloody stay, keepin' promises she never asked of me, and…" he went on brokenly, finally saying aloud what he had been torturing himself with every moment since that awful night, "'S not like I even kept the one that mattered." Spike met Giles' wide eyes, his own curiously unfocused, but absolutely devastated. "I failed her. She's dead because of me."

Giles felt the air leave his lungs, replaced by the cold horror of hearing aloud the thoughts that had been tormenting him all these weeks. Spike, even in the depths of his own misery, could not miss the man's reaction. Their eyes stayed locked for what seemed an age, riveted to the grief and shame mirrored in the other's eyes, having found a common ground where they least expected it.

At long last Giles drew a deep shuddering breath and tore his eyes away. He rose and Spike heard his footsteps echo across the bare room. A few minutes later, he heard the sound of running water in the sink, and the sound of the man removing blood soaked clothing and using a wet towel to wipe as much of the drying gunk off his body as he could, and putting his head underneath the spigot to rinse it from his hair. He heard the gasping, muttered curses as the cold water poured over the other man, and then chattering teeth as the water was shut off and he began drying off with another towel. A sniff, then a quiet, "I'll be right back." The bare feet padded to the door into the shop, and Spike heard the door close.

He noted that his senses were not as acute as usual–he could not make out the sounds of Giles' movements on the other side of the door. Without the sounds to distract him, he was forced back to his question, and his growing awareness that the monster he held within him–that Was him, in fact, was not what it had been. The demon that had reanimated his flesh, the one that was constantly tempting him to kill, maim, and destroy, was fading into silence. And as his awareness grew, he realized that it had been losing its hold on him for some time.

The door opened again, and Giles appeared at his side, dressed once again in his rumpled suit, and holding a bottle of scotch in one hand, and two clean glasses in the other. He set them down and sat, his back leaning against the wall. He poured himself a drink, then glanced over with the questioning raise of his eyebrow. Spike gave a slow nod, and a second glass was poured. He grimaced as the man helped him to pull himself into a sitting position, leaning back against the same wall.

Spike looked down at his nerveless hands, trying to get them to unclench enough to grasp his glass. Giles took a deep drink from his own glass, then, set it down and brought Spike's to his lips. Spike gulped a bit down, grinned weakly, and said, "Thanks."

Giles set the glass back on the floor and took up his own again. "Don't mention it," he replied quietly. But the questions burning in the vampire's brain would not be still, and after a moment, Spike cleared his throat hesitantly.

"Rupert. I don't have a soul. So, why…." He paused, drew in a shuddering breath, forced himself to put it into words, his need to know finally outweighing his unwillingness to seem weak or vulnerable. "Why do I Care? Why do I Hurt?"

Giles set down his drink abruptly and began polishing his glasses thoughtfully. "I have a theory about that." He paused as if unsure where to begin, then he said, with an echo of his old didacticism, "When the Initiative implanted you with that chip, I thought your overtures of… er… at times, friendship, were just the product of a vampire's natural social instincts. You are by nature something of a pack animal, if you will, and of course none of your own kind would accept you, unable to hunt, or to kill."

Spike nodded. So far, none of this was news. Giles pursed his lips, choosing his next words carefully. "Have you ever heard of a man named Phineas Gage?"

Spike's eyes screwed up in concentration as he searched his memory. "Sounds vaguely familiar–oh wait. I know this…. Yeah. Wasn't he that prat who blew a railroad spike through his head, and lived?" At Giles' nod, Spike grinned a little in spite of himself. "Never managed to recreate that little effect myself, though it weren't from lack of tryin'." Giles looked slightly ill, but not surprised.

"Yes, well. You remember how the injury affected his personality? One day he was kind, decent, responsible, and the next…."

"A right sodding bastard," Spike supplied approvingly. Then his expression changed as he realized what Giles was getting at.

"Such injuries are not at all common, but they are not unprecedented, either," Giles continued. "And some have taken, as you put it, 'right sodding bastards' and changed them in the opposite way. My guess is that either in the process of implanting the chip into you, or more likely in the constant electrical impulses keeping your, um, instincts at bay, that same part of your brain has been damaged."

Spike was gazing at the Watcher in open mouthed horror. Finding his voice, he said, "Are you telling me…? No, Giles, stake me now. Please. I will Not become another tortured, ensouled, Nancy boy like Angel…."

Giles shook his head. "I don't think that's it, not exactly. If I understand what happens when a man becomes a vampire, the demon changes the host's personality to suit his, er, inclinations. In your case, I believe the demon's hold over your personality has been disrupted by your chip, and the human memories and thought patterns of the man you once were are being set free." Giles fixed piercing green eyes on the horrified vampire. "I've seen you with Dawn–with all of them. If I thought for a moment that your demon was in control now, I'd stake you where you sit, Hellmouth be damned. But I don't think that it is. Something has upset the normal balance." He took another sip from his glass.

Spike considered this for a time, but looked unconvinced. "I still crave it, though," he admitted quietly. "The killing, the cruelty. I have dreams…." He trailed off, wondering if Giles would stake him now, and if he cared. Giles regarded him searchingly for a moment.

"And the man you were is sickened by it," he replied at last. "The fact that you call it killing, cruelty, gives it away. You're different, Spike. Something entirely new. What you do with that is up to you," he paused and drained his glass, then continued, a ghost of a grin playing at his lips, "but I must say, I find it a good deal preferable to a certain ensouled vampire who might revert at any moment to his former, ever so charming self…."

Spike looked up from his troubled thoughts with a slight grin of his own. He reached out now to grasp his own glass and bring it to his lips. Another bit of common ground, there–they both shared an intense dislike for the brooding wonder. He raised his glass in mock salute and took a sip. "There is that," he agreed.

They sat in silence for a long while. Then Giles stirred and glanced down at his watch. He sighed heavily, then struggled to his feet. "Better get you home before sunrise." He offered the vampire a hand up. Spike stared at it blankly for a moment, then nodded and accepted the help gratefully. He still felt weak and dizzy, but no more so than the time he'd drained a crack addict, back in the day. He'd only made that mistake once, but it had been interesting. A pang of something very like regret competed with the latest random thought to zing through his brain: wonder what would happen if you got a pig very stoned, then drained its blood….

He shook off the speculation, leaning on Giles as they made their way out of the shop and down the alleyway to Giles' car. "Hang on," Giles instructed quietly, popping the boot with the button on his key chain and pulling out a blanket. Spike looked at it, perplexed.

"Not that late, is it?" he asked. Giles was transferring the vampire's weight from himself to the hood of the car, turning away after first satisfying himself that Spike would not topple over. Giles unlocked the passenger door and opened it.

"No," he replied over his shoulder and spreading out the blanket. "I just don't fancy having to get several different types of demon blood out of these seats."

Spike snorted. "Thanks ever so," he shot back sarcastically, but with only a shadow of his usual cockiness.

They drove through the darkened streets of Sunnydale in silence. Spike's vision was swimming too much to follow their progress, so he was surprised when they pulled to a stop, to see that they were not at the gate to the cemetery, but rather in the lot of the Watcher's apartment complex. He raised a questioning eyebrow at his companion, but Giles either didn't notice it, or chose to ignore it. Spike decided hot running water beat the heck out of whatever he could rig up in his crypt, and wisely held his tongue, shrugging as he accepted the man's assistance to the door and inside.


	7. Poetic License

Summer

Part 7/9 - Poetic License

_DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out._

_A/N: This is the other major change to the old story, other than the end of Part Nine which was stalled for, like, forever. Giles' feelings here are part of what sparked my 06 Nano Novel, set 2 years post "Chosen."_

_A/N: 2/8/08 – The Nano Novel from 06 is one of the next projects I am going to start posting. The first third has been beta'd and corrected. Other than editing and a couple of pages of Ending, it's done. It will probably go up on my live journal first, though, before I archive it out here. Perhaps because this section was written so much later, it's got more focus than the rest. The nature of man, monster and evil-- not a bad theme. _

_Thanks as always for reading, and reviewing. _

* * *

The night was, to put it mildly, surreal. Giles had gotten the semi-conscious vampire to the couch with some difficulty, then gone off to the kitchen to set a kettle on and prepare a mug of the blood they had all of them started keeping on hand, never knowing when it might be needed. He grimaced as he pulled the mug from the microwave and tried not to breathe through his nose as he returned to the living room. Once there, of course, the aroma of Vauxalla and Verrush demon quite overshadowed anything so mundane as pig's blood. He swallowed convulsively. 

"Here, drink this," he said, helping the vampire to sit up and pushing the mug into his unsteady hands. He pursed his lips before adding, "Careful, it's hot." He turned away. But a very different voice than that he usually associated with Spike followed him back toward the kitchen.

"E-excuse me, Sir. What is this?"

Giles turned back with a sarcastic reply, but the words died on his lips. Something in the tone was off. An accent he'd not heard on this side of the Atlantic, even from Wesley: cultured, shy, obviously well bred. A tentativeness, a vulnerability he'd never heard from the cocky vampire, not even earlier this night.

He saw Spike's blond mop of hair over the back of the sofa, drying in spiky clumps where the greenish ichor still clung where it had splattered earlier. He seemed to be looking around curiously, as if seeing everything for the first time. Giles came back and sat down in the chair in the corner and studied the vampire for a long moment, frowning.

The features had changed, too -- they were softer somehow. The eyes had a myopic squint, but a lively, almost cheerful, curiosity to them. The only time Giles had seen that kind of joy in those eyes was prior to Buffy's death, when the vampire was dueling with any of the many demons his chip allowed him to harm at will. He shook himself out of his musings to answer the questioning look in the shy, gentle eyes.

"Um, think of it as a kind of, um, American Bovril. You've been rather injured, I'm afraid. This will help."

The vampire nodded slowly and took a sip. Giles was surprised to note that the features did not change as the blood passed his lips. They remained completely human as he drained the mug, then leaned back, shivering uncontrollably. Giles leaned forward and rescued the mug before it could tumble to the floor. The kettle whistling in the kitchen gave him an excuse to leave the disconcerting thing that both was and was not Spike.

He had not been absolutely sure his guess about Spike's chip had been correct. But the thing in his living room could not be there otherwise. He finished assembling the tea tray mechanically and returned to the living room. The young man had leaned back and closed his eyes. Giles had seen Spike asleep far too often during the months they had lived in this flat together, and he had never seen his face look thus. So innocent, like a little boy. The mocking, sardonic grin was gone, as was the guarded, preternatural, predatory air of the monster Giles knew he was. Something twisted deep in his gut. Was this the man, or the thing that had killed him, over a century ago? It chilled him, that he couldn't say for certain.

Spike's eyes flickered open. "I beg your pardon," he said, in the same soft, polite tones. "That wouldn't happen to be tea, would it?"

Giles blinked. "Um, yes, as a matter of fact. Milk, or sugar?"

The young man struggled to sit back up, and Giles steadied him with a strong hand on his shoulder. "Both, please," he replied. Giles poured the tea and added the requested ingredients without a word, then poured black for himself, though he almost never took it that way.

Giles sipped his bitter tea and tried to get his Watcher's soul excited about the opportunity he had here. He could learn things that had puzzled the Council for over a century, things that Spike had always kept carefully guarded. But it was with reluctance that he cleared his throat and asked tentatively, "Um, you were a bit disoriented earlier. Do you know your name now?"

Spike sipped his tea, then gave a rueful smile. "Oh-- of course. William Congrieve, at your service," he replied. "Distant descendant of the playwright, but, sadly, lacking his talent." He shrugged philosophically and took another sip of his tea.

Giles cleared his throat again. Well. There was one mystery solved. None of the Council's records had captured William the Bloody's surname for posterity. He felt a slight twinge of sympathy for the monster. He, too, knew what it was like to have to live up to a famous name, or worse, a famous familial line.

The young man was shivering again, uncontrollably. "Sir, what …?" he gasped out, his eyes wide, terrified. "I see things… monsters. Blood on my hands. So much blood..." The features twisted, first in uncontrollable sobs, a second later replaced by fangs, yellow eyes, demonic visage. Even then, though, the face no longer seemed evil-- just consumed by guilt, sorrow, an intimate knowledge of sins too heavy for forgiveness. Giles was rooted to the spot, revolted by what he was seeing, yet unable to look away.

The mug tumbled to the floor and broke, spattering dregs of white tea over the floor between the two men. Giles shook himself from his stupor and helped the vampire, now once again wearing his human face, eyes closed as if in death, to lie back on the couch. A surprisingly firm grip bruised his forearm as he tried to retreat once again.

"Watcher," a more familiar voice rasped. The eyes flickered open. A slight grin. "What's the matter, eh Rupert? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Giles felt as if he had. He'd seen a similar spectacle only once in his life-- himself, in a mirror, the night he'd helped raise Eyghon in young Randall, and then killed him. He looked away from the now keen, preternaturally observant eyes, unable to control the trembling in his hands.

Spike was suddenly acutely aware that he was looking over the edge of a volcano, and he froze for a moment, then instinctively sought to defuse the situation. A trick he'd learned, all those years with Angelus, and before that, his old headmaster. "Ah, listen Rupert," he said, a shade too casually, struggling once more to sit up, "maybe a bath would help. Least for the smell. Give me a hand, would you?"

Between the two of them, they managed to get the vampire stripped and settled into the water before Spike was gone again, replaced by the very confused young man, eyes wide as he examined his injuries and the unnaturally colored blood crusted over his body. Giles found himself taking refuge in a mindless recitation of irregular Sumerian verb conjugations. Seeing Spike so vulnerable was having a decidedly unpleasant effect on him, and he was not very gentle in his application of soap. Giles tried to block out the increasingly incoherent mutterings of his patient, sometimes in the familiar East London, filth laden drawl, sometimes in the gentle, tentative tones of someone from a time long, long past.

Unbidden, the lines from Shakespeare suddenly flashed through his mind. "In his nakedness he appears but a man..." He clamped down hard on the thought, and on the arm he was using to draw a now reasonably clean Spike up out of the grey green water. He felt the vampire wince, then lock his hand on Giles' own upper arm to steady himself. Giles avoided the questioning blue eyes as he ruined three towels helping dry the last of the water and blood from the unsteady vampire, then re-dressed the abdominal wounds with clean gauze and bandages and tape. Without a word, he handed Spike an old pair of pajamas, then returned to the living room, to dispose of the disgusting blanket and replace it with a clean one from the linen cupboard.

Spike came up to stand in the darkened hallway, looking out into the living room. His eyesight wasn't so good, but he could feel the tension in the room, smell the rage coming off the Watcher in waves. He hesitated for a few moments, then shrugged. If Rupert was going to take whatever it was out on him, Spike on the whole would prefer he did it while he himself was sitting down, or within easy range to collapse on the couch. But Giles got him settled before taking himself, an empty mug, and a half empty bottle of single malt upstairs to his loft.

Giles sat at the small writing desk upstairs and gazed out the window for a long time, swirling and sipping at the generous splash of amber liquid he had poured into it. He wasn't sure why the night's events had so rattled him. A few hours ago, he had been comforted that Spike's demon seemed to be more than just hamstrung by the chip in his brain-- that the vampire seemed to be turning ever more human. But now... he took another gulp and felt the scotch burn its trail down his raw throat. What did it mean, if Spike, as a demon, could be good? At least, all the evil Spike had done, had been done by the demon. What did it mean, if a demon could be more blameless than a man? Giles drained the mug and stared at it, feeling the darkness closing in on him.

* * *

When Spike awoke the next morning, Giles had already left for the day. A note on the kitchen counter curtly informed him that he could ring the shop if he needed anything. Spike heated a mug of blood with a certain amount of relief, that he would not have to face the Watcher just yet. He had no clear memories of the previous night, but there were lingering smells in the still air of the flat which had nothing whatsoever to do with demon blood—rage, loathing, fear—Giles' as well as his own. And not his own, as well—there was a tinge of a third man's emotions, a man who was eerily familiar in ways Spike did not want to think about. He returned to the couch, drained the mug as quickly as he was able, and returned to the welcome oblivion of sleep. 

Spike dozed for much of the day, but by late afternoon he felt strong enough to drag himself to the bathroom to splash some water on his face and imagine what kind of bloodshot, haggard eyes might look back at him from the washbasin mirror, if he had been able to cast a reflection in it.

Slightly refreshed, he padded to the kitchen in search of more blood, and perhaps the makings for a cup of tea. The effort tired him, and after he'd finished another mug of blood and brought his tea out to the living room, he collapsed heavily on the couch. But after a few minutes, he grew restless again and pulled himself up to pace to the door he could not open for another few hours, depending on how late sunset was tonight. He glanced down, noticing for the first time the pajamas which were obviously not his, and he grinned a little as he made his way upstairs in search of some clothing equally not his, but more suitable for going out as soon as night did fall in earnest.

After he had dressed in a jumper he was sure Giles would miss, and sweats and a t-shirt he probably wouldn't, Spike returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets in search of – he wasn't really sure what. He felt – unsettled. Jumpy. Like his nerve endings were ablaze. Like he was on the edge of learning something he was sure he did not want to know. He glanced out through the pass through and his eyes lit on a legal pad and a pen. Without knowing quite how he came to be there, he suddenly found himself holding them in his hands, and images, phrases, ideas kindling in his mind. Almost as if in a trance, he sat down at the nearby table and began to write.

* * *

If Giles had thought his nocturnal adventures might pass unnoticed, his associate Anya soon disabused him of the notion. When he came through the front door of the shop, only a half an hour later than usual, but carrying a box of donuts he hoped might obscure that fact, Anya's first question was not the expected "Where the hell have you been?" but rather, "What in the name of all the gods did you do in here last night?" In response to Giles' withering glare, she added, more quietly, but still somewhat sullenly, "It reeks worse than Xander's basement." 

Giles caught a whiff then himself and wondered if bringing in any kind of food might not constitute a health hazard. He was sure Anya could tell him. He cleared his throat and assumed his blandest, most innocent expression. "Oh, there was a slight, erm, incident last night; got a bit messy, I'm afraid. I'll take care of it now." He placed the donut box on the table and his satchel on his desk chair.

Anya glowered a bit, but the "You'd better" was muttered as much under her breath as Anya was capable of speaking, and Giles pretended to take no notice. He went to the back room, stripped to his shirtsleeves, and began putting the ruined clothing and towels he'd used the previous night into a trash bag. Then he opened a window and the back alley door to let the place air out a bit. The sealed bag went into a dumpster down the alley–not his, just in case demonic fluids and the like turned out to be on the list of hazardous materials it was illegal to dispose of in such a manner.

A half hour later, and the place was almost bearable. He discarded the mop and rags he had used to clean up the floor and sink, and turned up the fans he'd placed in the doorway and window to finish venting the place out. A brief twinge of worry–what would Buffy say when she saw this mess?–was just as quickly replaced with the searing pain as he remembered why that was no longer a concern. He made for the back door into the shop before the regrets overwhelmed him, that his last conversation with his Slayer, right here, had been so strained. She had been so distant, so angry with him. But he couldn't escape the echo as he shut the door behind him–"I imagine you hate me right now…." God knew, he hated himself.

Giles glanced up as he reentered the shop to watch Anya completing a sale. She was spinning a surprisingly convincing lie to explain the lingering odor the customer had noticed. Something about a sewer line backup, from what he could gather. As the bell over the door announced said customer's departure, Giles gave Anya a faint grin.

"Better?" he asked.

Anya looked slightly mollified. "Yes. I have decided not to call the health inspector or OSHA after all." She turned and busied herself with an inventory of the items on the shelves behind the cash register, leaving Giles to hope that had been a joke, and the calls had never been a serious plan. Just in case, though, he did come to pat her on the shoulder.

"Thank you," he said warmly, and was rewarded with the first real smile he'd seen from her in days.

"I'm glad you're okay, whatever happened," she replied, a little awkwardly, glancing down at the floor. "And don't worry," she added. "I'm not breathing a word of this to Willow." She turned back to her shelves. "I think I've done enough breathing for one day," she muttered quietly, but with a trace of a grin on her lips. Giles chuckled and gave her shoulder a final squeeze before making his way to his desk and the mountain of financial records he had set himself to reconcile that day.

When he arrived back at his flat, it was after dark, and Spike was nowhere to be seen. There was, however, a very thick envelope bearing his own name, lying on the counter of the pass through to the kitchen. Giles' brow wrinkled as he picked it up to study the unfamiliar script–far too neat and old fashioned to be from one of his young friends.

Opening the envelope, he removed a large number of legal pad pages, most covered front and back with the same neat script in the blue-black ink from his only working fountain pen. The first page bore the simple title, "On the Deaths of Two Slayers." Giles forced himself to read every word. And he tried very hard not to see in his mind's eye the gentle blue eyes of a young man, filled with regret and horror at the tale.


	8. Gods and Ghosts

Summer

Part 8/9 - Gods and Ghosts

_DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out._

_A/N: And here, the story proper revolving around Spike and Giles comes to an end. With some very creepy Willowy goodness. But there's still a final segment to go. And the last two parts do give Spike, then Giles, parallel final scenes. Thanks again for the kind reviews on this very old fic. Hope to have another chapter of " In Loco Parentis" up by the weekend._

* * *

"This is not working. Why is this not working?" Willow muttered to herself, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was sitting at a worktable set up in the basement of the Summers residence, her laptop plugged in to a robot which, from all indications she could see, should be moving and functioning as normally as it ever had. Except for the fact that it wasn't.

She had gotten the head reattached, and all the blown circuits and fused wires repaired, and even hacked in to the truly disturbing yet brilliant command code Warren had written. It had given her all new depths of meaning for the word "depravity," and she wasn't sure she was looking forward to interacting with this–thing. But the summer was already half over, and vampiric activity was starting to pick up again. They couldn't afford to wait much longer before the "Slayer" made an appearance. And a well-tested, glitch-free appearance, at that.

It looked like a sleeping young woman, lying there on the cot beside her table, plugged in to the power unit they'd confiscated from Spike's crypt. Willow could get individual components to work manually–the eyes could blink, the arm raise and lower itself on command, the head could nod. But speech, not to mention independent activity or consciousness, had so far eluded her.

Willow's time these days was divided between the robot, research into dimensional portals and resurrection spells, and taking over the leadership duties of the Scooby gang once shared by Buffy, who was in no position now to perform them, and Giles, who was distancing himself more with each passing day from the role. Willow saw what needed to be done, and as always, she jumped right in. But in the wake of the new powers stirring within her, she also felt uniquely qualified, as if she alone could see clearly, could grasp the intricate currents of events and information and act on them to keep her friends, her family, safe.

She was also testing the extent of her new powers, though she had to be careful not to do so when Tara was around. She had noticed an increasing uneasiness in her beloved, a sort of wariness, even jealousy, that she wasn't sure Tara was even aware of on a conscious level. Something about how much she had stretched herself, that night she had battled Glory, had opened up whole new levels of insight and ability, and though she had a headache much of the time these days, she was amazed at the rapid progress she seemed to be making. Part of her regretted not being able to share it with Tara, but another part was reveling in the way she felt special, in control, no longer helpless before the terrors of the night.

She sighed and began to check the 'Bot over again from the beginning, searching for the smallest indication of damaged wires, loose connections, faulty chips. She had replaced many components already, and the evidence of her prowess was the fact that the 'Bot now appeared to be asleep, its chest rising and falling in simulation of breathing, its muscles able to move if she triggered them manually with a few keystrokes.

A strange image suddenly came to her–Michelangelo's depiction of God and Adam painted on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. She remembered thinking when she first saw it, that it made sense, from an evolutionary point of view. Though she had long since ceased to believe the creation myth of Genesis, she remembered as a child she had reconciled her faith with her scientific knowledge by supposing that the man formed from clay had been a living animal, and that it was the spirit and wisdom and self awareness God breathed into it that had made it a man in His own image. It irked her feminist sensibilities to no end, but she always remembered this naïve reasoning when she saw a photograph of the Sistine chapel ceiling, where Adam was weakly extending his hand as God reached out to confer the gift, not of life, for Adam was already breathing, but anima, spirit.

"Maybe that's what's missing here," she mused. She didn't seriously think that Warren had any kind of godlike abilities, but whatever he'd used to spark the 'Bot initially, she might be able to supply now with magic, if she could only figure out how. She sat for several minutes staring off into the ether as her mind sorted through the hundreds of pages of spells and arcane lore her restless, ever seeking mind had processed and stored in her brain. A healing spell, maybe, one that could bind all the parts of a body into a coherent whole….

She glanced at the chronometer on the computer's desktop. Tara was usually asleep by now, and her nightmares not due to begin for another few hours. She couldn't ask for a better time, and the best of it was, the spell she was considering didn't require any outside elements–it was not dissimilar to the one she'd used on Giles in the hospital. All it required was disciplined concentration and focus.

She placed her hands on the robot's temples, brushing back the golden locks gently. The sadness and loss welled up in her, but Willow shoved them down again mercilessly. She did not have time for grief, and so she refused to acknowledge it, as if by denying the feeling, she could make its cause not be, as well. Buffy was not dead, and she would not Be dead, if Willow could just be strong a little longer. They were close to gathering the ingredients for the spell that would bring the real Buffy back to them, and Willow was certain, the more she studied, that the spell would work. Just as she was certain now, that this one would. She cleared her mind and began to chant quietly.

She didn't notice the way the lights in the basement flickered, or the way the exposed circuits of the robot's abdomen shot sparks at her as she called on the power within her. It would not have mattered if she had noticed–the power caressed and consumed her, as it always did, a high like no other. She dimly registered the hum and whirr of her laptop, processing information and data and, part of her mind hoped, capturing it for later study. She found herself reaching out with her mind, like God towards languid Adam, willing him to Be…. Quite unbidden, another echo of Genesis filled her mind…. "_Fiat lux_…." There was a bright flash of light behind her eyelids, and then all was stillness….

Willow blinked groggily as she stared up at a florescent light in the ceiling above her. She didn't remember taking a nap, and wondered why she had chosen the basement floor for it…. Then memory began filtering back, and she struggled to her feet, ignoring a pain in her head so great she thought she might throw up, a pain which was forgotten as soon as she began to scan the diagnostics on her laptop. There….

She looked down at the robot to find it looking up at her. It seemed to be experimenting with facial expressions, trying to find one that suited its level of puzzlement. "Where am I?" it asked.

Willow swallowed hard. "Um… you're safe," she replied, pulling her chair upright and sinking into it to study the readouts on her screen more closely.

The Bot lifted a hand and looked at it curiously. It stretched forth its hand and touched Willow with its index finger. "Light," it said.

* * *

Giles' lips compressed into a thin line as he replaced the phone in its cradle on his cluttered desk. In answer to Anya's questioning look, he cleared his throat and glanced away. "Um, Willow's gotten the robot operational. She's bringing it over now." He ran trembling fingers through his hair. It made him look like nothing so much as a small, lost little boy, his hair tousled and sticking up at all angles. He paced the floor aimlessly for a few moments, then wandered back towards the training room.

Anya watched him go with sad, worried eyes. She wished she could do something to help him not feel like this–for that matter, to help_her_ not feel like this. She felt guilty for a moment–the only thing standing in the way of bringing the real Buffy back at this point was her inability to locate an Urn of Osiris, if one even resided on this plane of existence anymore.

Then she felt an unreasonable but much more satisfying anger towards Willow, not only for making Giles sad just now, but for scores of little actions and attitudes and… everything. She'd been little miss control freak all summer, and while at first it had been a relief to them all to have someone who seemed to know what she was doing giving the orders, the novelty was wearing a little thin now. Especially for a former vengeance demon with a millenium's worth more experience in taking care of herself and dealing with the supernatural world.

And Willow's new personality was creeping her out, too. She was less interested in the feelings and thoughts of others than she'd ever been before, and a lot more evasive when questioned, about anything. Anya was sure, for instance, that Willow was not sharing everything about the spell for Buffy, or dimensional portal mechanics. Not that the details interested her, as they were unlikely to lead to financial gain. But she could not shake a sense of uneasiness around the witch.

Anya might have been less inclined to go along with the crazy scheme they had concocted, if not for two things. One was that Xander believed Willow with all his heart, and he so much needed to do something to save their departed friend. It would kill him if they didn't try to help Buffy, and Anya was all for courses of action that did not involve hurting Xander. The other was that Tara was agreeing to the scheme as well. She had been quite vocal about her beliefs that magic should not be used for selfish reasons, or to change the natural order of the universe. So if Tara believed this plan was justified in light of the information they had about Buffy's situation, Anya was willing to put aside her misgivings and the huge red flashing lights and sirens that sounded in her mind every time Willow spoke about the plan.

Giles returned to the storefront several minutes later dressed in the jeans and a t shirt he had kept on hand for training with his Slayer. He paced the store restlessly, unable to settle long enough to concentrate on the newspaper on the counter, much less the financial records scattered across his desk. It was with a sense of painful relief that he looked up as the bell above the shop door announced the arrival of two — he couldn't call them both persons, could he? He saw Willow, and behind her….

It wasn't Buffy, of course, and he was ashamed of how his heart skipped a beat anyway to see her likeness. It would be so easy to seek respite from the pain of her absence and his own grief, by pretending. Though it would dishonor her memory for him to do it, he had fewer and fewer illusions anymore, about what sort of man he was. He knew the temptation was there, and that it always would be. Denial–the Sunnydale way of life. He tore his eyes away from the thing wearing his Slayer's face and turned to the young witch.

"Hello Willow," he said quietly.

Willow's eyes met his, and what he saw there caused him to forgive her every hurt she had ever caused him. She Knew. Somehow it helped, that she could see what this was going to do to him, and how much it pained her, that this should be so. She crossed the shop and buried her face in his chest as he hugged her back with all his strength. "I'm sorry, Giles," she whispered, through her tears.

He pulled himself together and pulled back to look into her eyes. "It has to be done," he said firmly, but gently. "You've done well. I-- I knew you would."

The praise did not even register with Willow. Giles took it for grief, but in reality it just seemed superfluous to her, in the aftermath of the powers she had wielded the night before to get the robot working. She just sniffed and said, "I thought maybe you could test her reflexes, see what I need to adjust in her programming…." Other than the icky Spike fixation and the truly prodigious amount of memory devoted to sexual subroutines. She should probably warn him about that before….

"Where is Spike?" the robot asked, looking around with wide, curious eyes.

"He's uh… not here right now." Willow traded a significant glance with Giles, then went on, "Giles needs to train with you first. Do you know where you are?"

"Of course," the machine responded brightly. "I am at the Magic Box. Guyles, I mean Giles, bought it because he needed something to do when Passions wasn't on."

Giles found himself startled out of his grief by that. "I'll kill him," he growled. Willow and Anya were relieved to see the mood shift. An angry Giles was easier to take than a broken one, especially when the anger wasn't directed at either of them.

The 'Bot continued, obliviously, "I feel as if I have been away from him for a long time. Has it been a long time? Do you think he has forgotten me?"

Willow sighed. She was about to answer, when Giles stepped forward. "I'm sure he hasn't," he said quietly. "Do you know who I am?"

The robot approached and examined him closely. "Yes. You are Giles. My Watcher. Every Slayer needs her Watcher," she concluded, in a sing song, childish voice.

Giles cleared his throat and, in as stern a voice as he could manage through his suddenly tight throat, replied, "Yes. And the Slayer must do as the Watcher says."

The robot giggled. "That's not what Spike says." Giles looked helplessly at Willow, who took the machine by the hand and led it to a chair at the research table.

"Sit here for a minute," she ordered, pulling her laptop out of the case slung over her shoulder and pulling up the robot's thin tank top to expose the access panel concealed by a layer of false muscle and skin. She plugged a cable into the port and glanced up apologetically. "I'll try to get some of the junk out of the programming. You wouldn't believe what I've already cleared out–I was just afraid to get rid of too much at once, in case there were, you know, dependencies…."

Giles motioned for her to continue and eyed the clean glasses visible on the lower shelf of the tea table wistfully. Anya came over and patted his shoulder in what she thought was a comforting way. "Want me to pour you a drink?" she asked. He grimaced in response.

"No, thank you." He'd pour one himself, as soon as this thing was gone. Anya looked distinctly disappointed.

"Darn. I wanted one, too."

Giles managed a faint grin. "Help yourself. Though if you break anything, or make any mistakes with the money while under the influence, I'll have to take it out of your pay." Anya frowned and went off to dust a corner of the store as far from them as possible.

Giles sat down across the table from Willow and the robot. "Why don't we start with some basic questions and answers, see what we have to work with?" he suggested.

Willow held up one finger as she studied the monitor with a frown. "Give me a sec," she said, as she began typing rapidly. A few moments later she glanced up at him. "Okay. I should be able to see some of the code being called as you talk now–it should help me sort out what needs to be changed. I think she's got a pretty sophisticated learning module, though–we may be able to teach her what we need her to know, without having to resort to programming her manually."

"Um, yes. Right," said Giles, not having the faintest idea what she was talking about, and not much caring. For the next two hours he quizzed the robot on Slayer lore, types of monsters and how to kill them, and Buffy's own history as a Slayer. There were predictable gaps–she knew about all her encounters with Spike quite well, if not strictly accurately. She knew basic facts about her friends and family, that Angel was in LA and had lame hair, and that Willy's was a great place for beating information out of the proprietor, or a game of something called "kitten poker." At last Giles sighed and rose to his feet.

"I think you should get her home now, Willow." He went to a shelf behind the counter and began pulling out books, flipping open the covers and reading a few sentences of each, sorting them into stacks. "Can you read?" he asked, looking up at the robot.

It smiled vacuously. "Of course. Spike has these really cool magazines…." She began to giggle, and Giles fought down a wave of nausea.

"I'm sure he does," he muttered, once again furious with the vampire. He gathered a few volumes together and brought them over to the table, where Willow was packing away her computer and the robot was examining her fingernails in an admiring sort of way. "Here," he said, thrusting the books at the machine. "Read these tonight. I'll expect you to know the contents by…." He glanced over at Willow, who shrugged. "Tomorrow," he finished.

The robot smiled cheerfully. "I read very fast," she confided. "You can probably give me a few more, if you like." Giles gave a thin, tight smile.

"No need to, ah, rush things. We'll get these mastered, and then move on to other things." He motioned Willow to join him near the door to the training room with an expressive widening of the eyes and tilt of the head.

"Can she hear us here?" Giles whispered, and the robot sang out, "Yes, I can hear very well. Thank you for asking!" Giles groaned and opened the door to the training room, leaning heavily against it as he closed it behind the two of them.

Willow was torn between giddy excitement that the machine was working as well as it was, and horror that it was so…. "It's a nightmare," she moaned, sensing the latter feeling was more likely to be shared by her companion. "Giles, I am so, so sorry…."

Giles waved off her apology gently. "No, it's all right. But we can't have her seen by anyone who knows her, except us, of course, until we've had more time to… work on her," he finished lamely. "Certainly we can't have her out patrolling yet."

Willow looked thoughtful. "I'll bet the fighting skills are in much better shape. Xander and Anya said that part of her, um, behavior, was pretty good, when they first saw her that night with Spike…." She trailed off.

Giles grimaced. "Yes, well, when you see _ Spike _tonight," he said, placing a savage emphasis on the name, "please do me the courtesy of staking him for me."

Willow looked like she was seriously considering it. "I'd love to." She shuddered, remembering the programming she had purged before bringing the robot over, then continued, "But, I think it might unbalance the 'Bot even more, if we hurt him just now. Besides, we do still need him to cover patrols until we get her up to speed."

Giles removed his glasses to rub tired eyes. "Yes, quite right," he sighed. He replaced his glasses and looked around the room without really seeing any of it. After a moment, he roused himself and said, "I'll be counting on you lot to help with that–getting her speaking patterns and behavior more, well, normal." A worried frown crossed his face. "Do the others know yet? Dawn?"

Willow nodded. "They saw her this morning, when they came down to call me to breakfast. It was… pretty rough."

"I shouldn't wonder," Giles sighed. "Well, you take her on now, and bring her back tomorrow afternoon. I'll think of some training exercises to assess her fighting skills." Willow nodded and he started to pull open the door. As he did so, he said, with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, "And Willow. You really have done very well." She took his hand and squeezed it, then released it and moved past him to collect the robot. Anya came to stand by him at the cash register as Willow and the robot went through the shop door.

Anya risked a sidelong glance at her boss. He was staring vacantly at the door. She cleared her throat, unable to think of anything to say, and then began nervously counting the money in the till. Giles glanced down and smiled sadly as he watched her.

"I called Xander, while you were in the back," she volunteered suddenly. "He said Dawn had already told him about it. I didn't want him to be …." She didn't know how to continue that thought, but she knew Giles understood. He roused himself, moving to the table and sinking wearily into a chair. After a moment, he glanced at his watch.

"You can close up early today if you like, Anya. We haven't had anyone in all afternoon." They had, but Anya was not shocked Giles hadn't noticed. For once, though, she was not opposed to closing early, even if it meant a potential loss of income.

"That's a good idea, Giles," she said brightly. "Anyone coming out this late for spell ingredients, is probably up to no good anyway." She briskly finished counting the money and filling out the deposit slip, placing both in the zippered bag they used for depositing receipts at the bank down the street. "I'll drop by the bank on my way out. You'll be over for supper later, won't you?"

Giles glanced up, then shook his head. "Not tonight. I'm not feeling all that hungry," he said apologetically. His eyes wandered back to the door, curiously unfocused.

Anya felt again the helplessness, watching her friend's pain and unable to do anything about it. She stirred, about to try anyway, when she heard Giles say quietly, "Anya. Don't. I'm all right. I just need a little… time." She nodded, blinking back tears, and came to give him a quick pat on the shoulder, before heading for the door. The bell clanged as she pulled it shut and locked it behind her.

After a time, Giles rose and moved to the front window to turn the "Yes, We're Open!" sign to the other side, which read, "Sorry, We're Closed. Please Come Again." It wasn't like Anya to forget that, but Giles reflected today had not been anything like a normal day. He moved back through the shop, picked up his brown jacket and automatically checked for stakes in the pockets, along with his wallet and keys. Then he made his way to the back door of the shop and out into the alley, which was growing dim in the late afternoon sunlight.

Instead of heading for his car, though, he just wandered through the streets. He was not surprised when his feet took him to a particular one of Sunnydale's many cemeteries. Instead of passing inside through the front gate, he walked the perimeter to the point where the wrought iron fence abutted a pleasant grove of trees, and the grass grew taller against the iron bars. A few yards further on, there was a break in the fence, where the bars appeared to have been pulled aside by some huge beast, which, Giles reflected, was probably not so far from the truth. He ducked his way through them and found himself in an older section of the cemetery, under large, leafy trees, the graves carpeted by thick green grass.

He came to a place where the grass was less thick, but still surprisingly well grown, considering. He made a mental note to talk to Willow about that as he sat down at the foot of the grave. There was as yet no headstone, but that was probably just as well. They had argued for days about it, but they had finally agreed Buffy deserved to be buried under her own name. He had been the one to give in at last, and he had to admit that Willow had done an excellent job of placing the grave in an area as far from crypts and newer graves as possible–it was unlikely any creatures of the night would even notice the stone when it was erected. He sat and pulled his knees up to his chest, listening to the birds, the insect noises, watching the grass blaze with sunlight, then darken as the sun slipped lower and lower in the sky. Finally it was nightfall, and Giles still had yet to move, or speak.

He felt rather than heard someone behind him. He reached into his pocket halfheartedly for a stake, but made no move to rise. A numbing cold filled his veins, and he wondered if he cared that he soon might never move again.

"Thought I might find you here," Spike said, coming into his line of sight and looking around at the shadows above them, peppered here and there by stars from the night sky peeking through the canopy of trees. He tapped a cigarette from his nearly empty pack, then raised a questioning eyebrow at the man still seated on the ground, who was removing his hand from his jacket pocket. Giles nodded, and Spike pitched the whole pack to him in a neat underhanded toss. He lit his own fag, then flicked the lighter again as his companion rose to join him. Taking a deep draw on his own after lighting Giles', Spike added, "Willow said you wanted to see me."

Giles looked at him incredulously. "Perhaps the filth in which you live has clogged your ears," Giles replied acidly. "I believe the word I used was 'stake'." The vampire nodded ruefully, without any hint of a smile.

"After five minutes with them and the robot, I was kinda hopin' somebody would," Spike sighed. His eyes scanned the shadows surrounding them, carefully avoiding his companion's gaze. "Bloody hell," he breathed out, the smoke curling from his lips as from a devil's.

Giles thought for a moment to oblige him on the staking, before training, duty, and no small measure of sadistic cruelty won the day. "Not letting you off that easily, pillock," he said finally, flatly. Spike shrugged and continued to draw smoke into his otherwise non functioning lungs.

"I loved her, you know," he said at last. Before Giles could do more than growl, Spike held up a restraining hand and looked the taller man directly in the eye with painful intensity. "I couldn't have her, couldn't even be someone she could love back–you think I don't know that? But see, the thing is, I couldn't leave her. Like a moth to a flame or some such rot. And then, this guy gives me a way to, I don't know, pretend. And I was weak, like I've always been, and I took it. It was, what did she say to me that day? Yeah. 'Obscene.' And she was right, as usual." He continued to hold Giles' horrified eyes with his own, now overflowing with slow tears tracking down his pale cheeks, as he concluded, very quietly, "And now I'll have to look at her, see that _obscene_ mockery of everything she was, of everything I felt, that thing I created, every single sodding day. Don't think I'm getting off easy. You're right. Staking's too good for me."

They continued smoking in silence, Giles enveloped once again in that numb coldness he had been feeling, or rather, not feeling, since he had come here hours ago. Giles finally tossed his cigarette on the ground some distance away, and walked slowly over to crush it out under his booted heel. Without turning, he said, "I thought about it, you know. Bringing her back. Despite everything I know and believe in…." He took a shuddering breath. "But seeing that thing today…."

Spike came over to stand beside the man, staring off up the hillside at the endless rows of gravestones. "Yeah," he said, finally. Didn't seem to be anything more to say, really. He thought for a long moment, then, appropos of nothing, "Do you remember that little pub we went to, that night you were a Fyarl demon?"

Giles froze, then turned to fix incredulous eyes on the vampire. "What?"

Spike shrugged, "Well, they do know how to draw a proper pint, which is more than you can say for anywhere else in this godforsaken burg. C'mon," he added. "I'll buy you a drink."

Giles continued to stare at him. Finding his voice, he rasped, "We are not friends, Spike."

"No," the vampire agreed evenly, maybe a touch regretfully. "But that's the thing about being a demon innit? I can drink with enemies, 'cause I ain't got nothin' else." Spike crushed his own spent fag out under his boot, then looked up. Slowly, Giles nodded and they began walking together towards the front gate of the cemetery.

"I shall never forgive you for making that… thing," Giles said as they trudged up the hill. Spike paused and eyed him impassively. Giles stopped and looked back at him.

"I know. Makes two of us, Mate," the vampire replied finally, looking away. They continued on up the hill in silence.


	9. Night Visitors

Summer

Part 9/9 - Night Visitors

See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.

_A/N: Well here it is—the end of my very first fanfic, and the first completed fiction in about 20 years. It's kind of strange, but this has garnered more reviews than "Through a Glass Darkly," which was my second completed fic, and way better than this. But I didn't spread out the posts as much as I did with this. I think I'm starting to get the hang of ffnet now. If anyone cares, there's a postmortem of this fic on my live journal—use the webpage link on my profile page and find the tag "summer" or "postmortem." Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * *

Dawn's nightmares that night were much worse than usual. Tara and Willow had expected it, of course; she had been unusually quiet and subdued all day after her early morning shock-- seeing the thing with her dead sister's face sitting up and talking to Willow in the basement. Willow sat at the counter in the middle of the kitchen and stared into a tepid cup of mostly untasted tea, having been banished from Dawn's room by the hysterical teen weeping inconsolably in Tara's arms. She glanced up as Tara reappeared in the doorway from the dining room and leaned heavily against the door frame.

"How is she?" Willow murmured, her eyes returning to her mug, which she continued to stir listlessly.

Tara read her expression at once and sighed, as she repeated yet another variation of the reassurances she'd been using all day. "Willow, this wasn't your fault. We all knew you were working on the robot, that you had to get it running soon. It was just bad timing, that Dawn came down to get you..." She trailed off as Willow shook her head, bitterness turning down the corner of her mouth.

"I should have gone up and locked the door, or, or not lost track of time in the first place. And oh, God, Tara," Willow's face began to crumple at the memory, "you should have seen Giles today. He was so..." She sniffed and accepted a box of tissues from her lover gratefully. Tara sat down beside her and tried again.

"You did what you had to do," Tara insisted, trying to catch Willow's downcast gaze. Failing, she took her hands and continued, "And now, you need to get some sleep. Don't think I haven't been noticing how little of that you're getting these days." She said it sternly, as she looked deep into Willow's bloodshot eyes, but there was an unmistakable warmth and love as well.

Willow couldn't summon the energy to protest. "Yeah," she agreed finally, her eyes starting to glaze over a bit. "Seems like there's so many things to do, and every time I try to lie down, it's like my head turns into one big old honkin' aquarium, or something, with all the little fishy thoughts just swimming around..." Tara frowned as she pulled Willow into a gentle embrace, resting her cheek on the witch's shoulder. Her lover didn't usually babble quite like this unless she was really, really exhausted.

"C'mon," Tara urged, pulling Willow to her feet. "I'll tuck you in..." Willow answered only with that goofy grin Tara found so adorable, even though they both knew neither of them was in any shape for anything more strenuous than heavy snoring.

Tara came back downstairs after first watching Willow doze off clutching a stuffed bear she had not slept with since childhood, then checking on the still unconscious Dawn. She knew there was little point in her trying to sleep as well; one or the other of them would be screaming themselves awake from the nightmares for the rest of the night. So would she, if she dozed off.

Which is why she finished washing up the dishes, then stepped out onto the back porch for a breath of cool, reviving night air. She froze as she noticed Spike, already occupying his accustomed place-- third step down, left side.

" 'Lo, Tara," he greeted her quietly, without turning. He continued to stare off at the stars. "I take it Red's finally collapsed, then?"

Tara never knew quite how to take their vampire protector. On the one hand, she had always appreciated his tendency to speak his mind, even when perhaps he shouldn't. He had punched her in the nose once, proving she was not, as she had always been told, some kind of demon, even though he knew it would set off the behavior modification chip inside his brain. She had seen Spike's feelings for Buffy before anyone else, and had read just how sincerely he had loved their friend. All that counted in his favor.

But the way he was always hanging around, in some ways as needy as those who were sleeping inside the house, sometimes got to her a little. Especially now, when she had just spent far too many hours that day in the company of the eerie and entirely too cheerful and outspoken robot he had caused to be built in the first place. Not to mention the time she had spent doing emotional damage control all evening as a result of its reactivation. She could not keep the irritation out of her voice as she answered curtly, "Yes, she's asleep," with the slightly accusatory emphasis on the "she."

Spike just nodded. "Yeah. I got old Rupert home too, all safe and sound, not to mention a little drunk." He grinned without amusement. "Too bad that doesn't work so well for me."

Tara looked at him in some confusion-- she had seen Spike inebriated more than once, and she had heard stories about other times as well, especially a memorable one involving Xander, Willow, and a demanded love spell to help him win back Drusilla. Spike caught the look and sighed.

"Yeah. You know how alcohol works, right?" At her blank look, he continued with as much patience as he could muster. "Come on, you're a college girl an' all that. You know. Takes up space in the bloodstream that oxygen might otherwise be occupyin'--?" He broke off as Tara thought a moment, then nodded hesitantly.

"Well," he continued slowly, "Vampire here. No bloodstream... no circulation... No oxygen due to the whole no breathing thing..." He waited until comprehension finally dawned, then grinned again, sourly. He turned his eyes back towards the night.

But then Tara frowned. "So, it's all an act, then?" she asked slowly. "When you've been drinking, I mean?"

Spike shook his head, frowning as he tried to put it into words. "Not exactly. The alcohol does soak into the dead tissue and create a little of the old burn going down, and you do get a bit of the effects of 'demon rum' in the system. A little. But for really serious pain? It's not nearly enough." He took a long pull from the bottle of Guinness in his right hand, then repeated, more quietly, "Not nearly." He gazed off into the shadows for a time, before recollecting himself and offering Tara a swig from his bottle like the gallant gentleman he might once have been.

"Um...no. Thanks," she replied, with an apologetic smile.

Spike shrugged, downed the remainder in another couple of long swallows, then rose to toss the empty bottle into the trash can outside the back door. "So, what time did the Niblet conk out on you?"

Tara consulted her watch. "About an hour ago," she guessed.

Spike did some quick mental calculations. The nightmares were nothing at this point if not predictable, and he'd had plenty of practice by now. "Then we've got maybe another hour before the next wave hits," he estimated aloud. "You should try to get a bit of rest in the meantime, yourself," he added.

Tara pulled herself to her weary feet as Spike opened the back door for her. "Maybe later," she said as she reentered the kitchen. He closed the door and locked it behind them. They looked at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. Spike finally cleared his throat.

"Um...so. Fancy a cuppa, then? Tea, or hot cocoa?" He turned away without waiting for an answer, opening up the corner cabinet above the stove and rummaging through it.

Tara smiled kindly. "That's okay." But she filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove just the same. "Can't hurt to have some water ready to go, though," she explained.

"Good thinkin'," the vampire replied absently. He was staring at the unopened bag of marshmallows he'd just pulled from the back of the shelf, where it had been hidden behind a dozen or more spice jars and other containers. The sense of loss crashed over him like a wave, as he remembered the last time he had shared hot cocoa with Joyce, in this very kitchen, at about this time of night. No deep conversation that night, just light, easy companionship. He couldn't now for the unlife of him recall what they'd talked about. He glanced up and saw Tara looking at him, then turned away, the warm sympathy too much for him. He checked on the hot water, then measured out the cocoa mix just as he had seen Joyce do it so many times.

He added the hot water from the now whistling kettle, then replaced the kettle and turned off the burner underneath. He stirred his mug as the witch continued to gaze at him with her sad, wise eyes. Taking a taste, he made a face and admitted ruefully, "I've never gotten the hang of making this stuff." He replaced his mug on the counter with a slight growl.

Tara took the hot cocoa mix and a spoon and added a couple more spoonfuls to the mug. "Here, try this," she instructed, stirring it up, then stepping back as he blew into it and took another careful taste. This time he grinned faintly.

"Thanks." He added a handful of marshmallows, then replaced the bag in the cupboard exactly where he'd found it, a serious expression on his face. Almost, Tara found herself thinking, like a man might place flowers on the grave of someone he had loved. Before she had time to process this strange idea, Spike was headed towards the living room, calling briskly over his shoulder, "So...what'll it be, then? Rummy or chess?"

Tara pushed the cupboard the rest of the way shut and followed him. "I don't think I could concentrate enough for chess just now." Spike shrugged and pulled open the desk drawer for the pack of cards he'd placed there weeks ago.

As he shuffled, Tara asked him, "Does Giles know you play chess?"

Spike snorted rudely. "No, and you'd better not tell him, neither. Think I'd sooner bathe in holy water than suffer through a game of chess with our Watcher boy." He continued to shuffle smoothly.

Tara stifled a grin. "Oh? Why is that?" Spike just rolled his eyes and set the pack down for her to cut.

"Better not be tellin' your lady witch, either, as far as that goes. I got me a reputation to consider, after all." He picked up the deck she'd just cut and began dealing the cards out, too quickly for her to follow, his eyes on hers, as if waiting for something.

"Oh, don't worry," she assured him. "Your secret dies with me." She winced a little at the choice of words, but Spike appeared to take no notice as he picked up his hand and began sorting through it.

They played two games in near silence, without even the normal under one's breath observations you often hear during such games; no _Ah, collecting Kings, I see_, or _Knew I shouldn't have thrown down that seven_. Tara was in fact dozing off as Spike shuffled the third hand. He was on his feet instantly when the first shriek pierced the darkness upstairs.

"You stay; I'll take care of her," Spike said, and he was halfway up the stairs before Tara could drag herself to her feet to follow. He was sitting on the edge of Dawn's bed when she reached the upstairs landing, holding her close and murmuring comforting nonsense in her ear. Tara peeked in quickly at Willow, who had somehow managed to sleep through Dawn's cries. She came back to lean on the wall outside Dawn's room in time to see the vampire kiss a tear-stained cheek and settle the girl back on her pillows, asleep once more.

"Wish I had your touch," Tara whispered as he joined her in the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. They headed for the stairs, Tara trying not to stumble in her exhaustion.

"It's that thrall thing. Comes in handy sometimes," the vampire replied offhandedly, in a tone that should have been a joke, but somehow wasn't. He lent the blond witch an unobtrusive steadying arm as they made their way back down, and soon had her settled back on the couch.

"I'll just go heat up Red's tea," he said, both of them knowing they'd need it soon enough. When he returned, Tara had finally drifted off. In sleep, the worries she kept so well masked by day were apparent in the lines and creases around her eyes and mouth, the dark circles under her eyes, the slight drooping at the corner of her mouth. Spike covered her carefully with a blanket, then returned to his chair and started a game of one of the dozens of varieties of solitaire he'd picked up over the years, steadfastly refusing to think about the thing he'd seen through the doorway of the Slayer's bedroom, plugged in to the softly humming power unit, red and gold lights flickering on and off, eyes wide and staring into the darkness like a dead thing. Shame about the alcohol. It really was.

* * *

Giles wasn't nearly drunk enough.

Most assuredly, Spike had made valiant efforts in that direction. But Rupert Giles knew something the vampire couldn't even begin to guess. The human William had never faced, drunk or sober, any pain or loss more serious than the deserved ridicule over his poetic endeavors, and a single, if crushing, rejection by a lady love. A lady, moreover, whom he had not even known well enough to see for herself beyond the bright veil of poetic conceit and metaphor. The Watcher, on the other hand, was coming at this lesson after a lifetime's experience, and he knew beyond doubt-- for some kinds of pain, no amount of alcohol is enough.

Not that Giles had protested the attempt at the time; he'd only protested the company briefly. The first few swallows had dulled the fierce ache just enough to lull him into the hope that this time, things would be different. Instead, it had left him in a state between waking and sleeping, completely unable to move into either realm, and even more helpless to escape the thoughts and feelings he kept at bay in his waking hours by constant activity. He had to face the full impact of the fact that she was gone. And that wasn't the half of it. He also had to come to grips with the fact that there was a huge part of himself missing as well, one that left him unstable in ways he'd sworn he would never allow himself to be again.

When Jenny had died, he had come close, perhaps even crossed that line he'd set for himself, so many years before as he had stood over the body of the friend he had led to his death. In his grief fueled rage and thirst for vengeance, he had set off to introduce one monster to another. He had distanced himself from the pain as he often had, busying his hands and mind with solitary, decisive action. But even then, methodically choosing the weapons and going out to confront Angelus alone, he had known he was not alone. He had lashed out at the girl, told her it was not her fight, but all the time he had known the truth. There was an anchor out there for him now.

And through the intervening years, as they had grown estranged, then reconnected as comrades in arms and friends, the bond between them had evolved into something deeper and more profound than love itself. They had never spoken of it-- it simply Was, in the same way that Buffy's Slayer powers Were, or Giles' facility with languages Was. An inextricable part of who they were. And now, trapped in an alcohol-induced stupor, where his usual coping mechanisms could not be of the slightest help to him, he had to face going on without that anchor. With being more profoundly alone than he had ever been, even before he had been called as her Watcher.

He continued to hang there, between consciousness and blissful oblivion, his thoughts vague and clouded as if his brain were wrapped in cotton wool. But the pain was as sharp and clear as ever. Then, quite suddenly, he found himself transported to an afternoon he would carry with him as long as he lived-- a perfect day, all his loved ones safe, and happy, and at peace.

He was blushing as he took the wine bottle from Joyce, having just been teased by his Slayer. Seeing Buffy again, he felt a sudden relief, even as he knew on one level it was only a dream. He felt the same rueful amusement he had on that day as his eyes met Joyce's, and Buffy bounced back into the dining room, to the cheerful banter of their friends. He turned his full attention back to the bottle and corkscrew, but he glanced up when Joyce laid her hand lightly on his.

"I'm not sorry about anything that happened that night, Rupert," she said with a mischievous grin. "Are you?"

He returned a small grin of his own, in equal measures shy and wolfish. "Only that my younger alter ego behaved like a perfect cad to so beautiful a woman," he replied gallantly. "I am so glad you are better," he added, flushing slightly as he changed the subject. Joyce shook her head, refusing to be diverted by the sentiment, however sincere.

"You were not responsible for your actions that night, any more than I was. I see that, especially now. Life's too short to carry all that guilt around." She pressed his hand harder, then released it. "Your calling is burden enough. Don't blame yourself." He remembered another day, when Joyce had very much blamed him, for the disappearance of her daughter, and he felt very grateful for the absolution she conferred now with her touch.

"All right," he agreed, meeting her gaze. He read there no hint of a desire to renew a romantic relationship, but the awkwardness was gone, too, replaced by a kind of acceptance, and the hint of wry amusement he knew so well from her daughter. He smiled again, more at peace than he had felt for a very long time, then completed his task while Joyce turned to slice one of the pies cooling on the stove top.

Without warning, the peaceful scene shifted, and he was standing over Joyce's wide-eyed, staring body, a victim not of his mistakes or inaction, but of the frailty of all human life. He re-lived the numbing shock, the grief, the leaping forward to do something, anything, and finally, the redoubling of his grief as he held his Slayer weeping in his arms. It was almost worse this way, he reflected, as he relived it in his dream. There had been no one to blame then, either, no one to wreak vengeance upon. But he had been able back then to convert the sickening pain into some kind of action, to channel it into some productive avenue. He had been able, at least, to bury his feelings in service to his Slayer, to Dawn, to the young people who looked to him for guidance and strength. Just as he had done every day since Buffy had died.

The scene shifted again, and he caught his breath in astonishment, as he took in the old Sunnydale High School Library, sunlight streaming through the skylight and windows overlooking the gallery. He stood behind the counter, just outside his office, watching in bemused silence as an attractive, dark haired woman ran one finger over the books piled on the long table, awaiting his efforts to convert the filing system from whatever random system they had been employing when he'd arrived, to the standard Dewy Decimal System, or at the very least, an alphabetic one. He cleared his throat self consciously, heard himself stutter slightly, "M-May I help you, Miss...?"

She turned toward him, and where on that first day of school he had trailed off politely, waiting for her to supply her name, he found his throat suddenly tight with emotion as he recognized the dark, expressive eyes and slightly upturned, amused mouth.

"Calendar," she replied. "And I was thinking more that I might help you, Mr..." She grinned a little mockingly as she trailed off, awaiting his reply.

Before, the conversation had quickly devolved into a debate about books and technology, one that had eventually mellowed into a friendship, then into something deeper. But at the point where Jenny was about to make the radical suggestion that they work together to convert the library's collection into a digital, searchable database, she suddenly froze, and it seemed to him that he saw a pale image of Jenny step forth from her body. The library faded a bit, but the softly glowing apparition did not.

"Jenny," he breathed, pain and wonder mingled in his voice.

"Yeah." She smiled sadly. "I'm here." She glanced around the room, which took on the almost sepia tones of an old photograph, an insubstantial memory.

"You weren't all wrong, when you guessed my spirit was hovering nearby, back then. I was. I watched over you for a long time." She gazed at him, sympathy and loved etched deeply in her eyes. "Being a Watcher-- hard work, huh? But I guess you know all about that, don't you, England?"

He nodded wordlessly, as she moved closer to him. "Do you remember when, as time began to pass, you sometimes found yourself remembering something without pain, like this..." She opened her arms and stepped into Giles' answering embrace, then slipped past it and into his space, filling him with a sense of her loving presence. He drank in the sense of love, of peace.

The scene shifted, and he found himself standing outside, one cool November afternoon, wearing his dark blue suit, rising from placing the flowers against the headstone, Jenny standing with him as Buffy had on the day he remembered all those years ago.

"It's hard, Watching," she said again. She took his hand, cool, but comforting. He clasped it tightly for a moment, then released it as he felt the tears welling up, as he read a different name on the headstone before them. Jenny threaded her arm through his and leaned closer to whisper in his ear.

"Hey," she said gently. "You don't have to go all stoic, you know. Not with me, not with them. They're not children anymore. You don't have to protect them."

He looked into her eyes. "Don't I?" he rasped. He turned away, unable to face her. "There's more darkness in me than…" he trailed off brokenly. "You can't possibly imagine--the things I've done…." He saw the funeral pyre which had consumed what little had remained of poor Randall's body, then turned his eyes back to Jenny's, which shone with unshed tears, and understanding. The flames of his memory flickered in her dark pupils.

"I know that you do what you have to—you always have," she replied evenly. "That you never stop fighting the good fight. And that, sometimes, you regret what you do, to protect those you love."

He remembered Ben's still form, in the moments after he had taken the young man's life, and he shook his head. He thought of how his friends would react, if they truly knew what he was, what he had done. If they knew that he really would have killed Dawn, would have killed any of them, without hesitation. All but one. He felt Jenny touch his chin and turn his face back towards hers.

"Trust them, Rupert," she urged him. "Even with your darkness. None of you should have to go through this alone." Her dark eyes saddened, as they read the pain in his, the reminder that he was alone now in ways the others would never be, and could not possibly understand. Then she kissed his cheek and faded from his sight.

He turned back to the grave, as now the first tendrils of dawning light streamed across the grass covering it. The stone read, "Buffy Anne Summers. 1981-2001. She saved the world a lot." The epitaph had been Xander's suggestion, and in the end they had all gone with it, unable to come up with anything better. He knew that the stone itself had not yet been completed, but he could see it here, in his dream. As he gazed down upon his Slayer's grave, a hand suddenly burst forth from the earth, clutching desperately at the air as the rest of the body strove to follow. He stepped forward as if in a trance to take hold of the hand and pull her up into the open air.

Her hand was warm in his, before she released it and began brushing the loose dirt from her dress. She turned back to favor him with her equally warm smile. "Thanks, Giles." She glanced around, then wrinkled her nose with an expression of distaste. She looked so young, as she had when they had first met—cheerful, carefree, but already marked by the sorrow of her calling.

"What are you doing here?" she asked lightly. "I mean, it's pretty and all, but..." She shook her head. "You _so_ need to get a life," she announced, taking his hand again and giving it a slight tug. "C'mon. Let's take a walk."

With the transport only possible in dreams, Giles found himself in the back room of the Magic Box-- not as it was now, nor even as it had been on that terrible night almost two months ago, when Buffy's casket had rested in state here, before their makeshift service. Now, it was bare, as it had been on the day he'd bought the place, and brought Buffy back here for the first time, eager to show her the space, to point out its possibilities as a training room, to bicker playfully with her about how to decorate and equip it. He turned back as he had done that day, but this time she was not grinning teasingly at him, but frowning as she continued to brush grave dust from her dress.

"It's empty in here," she noted sadly, straightening up to focus her intense gaze on him. Giles realized she was talking about more than the room. She had aptly described his life, the sum of his existence. His expression shifted ever so slightly in recognition, and she caught it, as she always had, when she was paying attention. She nodded.

"You see it, don't you, Giles? This Room? It's you, now. What are you going to fill it with?"

For a moment, the scene shifted to the night of the funeral, and he took in the scene at the grave, lit by innumerable candles, a couple of electric torches, and a couple more of the old fashioned kind, reeking of kerosene, the long wooden poles thrust into the earth on either side of the grave itself. He saw again the worn but resolute faces of these brave young people, dearer to him than any words could express.

He remembered Dawn's small hand in his, Xander's gripping his shoulder, his arm around Anya, Willow on his other side, Tara also shyly touching his arm from her place at Willow's side. Spike stood apart from the group, but within the circle of light, and though his eyes streamed with tears, he'd met Giles' gaze unflinchingly. Then, they all faded from his sight, and he was again alone. Except for the hand that caught his and turned him to face her.

"You have to make a choice, now, Giles," she told him. "You have to choose to let them in, to trust them. You don't have to go through this alone."

She paused to let her words sink in, then continued, a little more harshly, "And if you can't do that-- if you can't let them in, you need to let them go. Let them get on with it. This living business. You've heard of it, right?"

She was deliberately baiting him now, and the worst of it was, she was succeeding. "You're not real," he rasped angrily.

She gave an unladylike snort in reply. "Yeah? Well, neither is this." She swept her hand to indicate the emptiness of the room around them. "This was a beginning that day, Giles, and it can be again. But this emptiness-- nobody but you is making you stay like this. Your friends out there-- they've grown up. They're not kids anymore. They love you and understand you in ways nobody else ever will. But you have to give something back. You have to be here-- really Be Here for them." She paused, then said, a little more harshly, "If you can't do that, you need to ask yourself-- why are you still here? And if you can't come up with an answer, then you need to get the hell out of their lives, and out of their way."

Her voice faded, and she stood there breathing hard, her eyes bright and visibly close to brimming over with tears. Giles wanted to take her in his arms, to promise her anything to take that look away. But instead he disengaged his hand from hers and stepped back.

"I can't do this, Buffy," he said quietly. "I feel like-- like I've lost the only part of myself that was… worth anything. The man who's left isn't... isn't anyone you, or they, would want to know." He drew a long, shuddering breath as he admitted the truth to himself, finally. "I'll stay long enough to teach them, to fight for them, to keep them safe," he continued. "But anything else... I can't."

Buffy studied him for a long moment, then stepped forward and pulled him into her embrace. "I know," she whispered. "But you will. In time."

He began to weep then, finally releasing the grief he had been bottling up for weeks, for decades, now. He awoke to find himself alone in his bed, soaked with tears and sweat, exhausted. It would be years before he recalled the contents of that night's dreams, but they affected him profoundly, even so.

And in a dim hotel room, a dark eyed, thin man watched as the scene faded from the heart of the crystal on the table in front of him. The blood smeared on both cheeks was tracked through with tears, but the man gave a slight, enigmatic smile. Then he intoned, in a raspy whisper, "Chaos, I remain, as ever, your faithful, degenerate son."


End file.
